


Post hoc, ergo propter hoc (‘After this, therefore because of this.’)

by hitome_bore



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Drama, Future Fic, M/M, Magic Revealed, Romance, Temporary Character Death, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2011-07-15
Updated: 2011-10-08
Packaged: 2017-10-21 11:20:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 12
Words: 91,450
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/224614
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hitome_bore/pseuds/hitome_bore
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>History books would not remember Gaius’ death precipitating the greatest war Albion had ever seen.  That blame rested entirely on the shoulders of an inexperienced sorcerer and the Prince whom he’d lied to a hundred times over.  Future!fic with a time travel twist.  Inspired and loosely based on Disney's <i>The Sword in the Stone</i>. General spoilers for the first half of season two.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This work was originally posted for camelotsolstice's 2009 fic exchange as a gift to [](http://www.livejournal.com/users/derryere/profile)[**derryere**](http://www.livejournal.com/users/derryere/). Over the past year and a half I've continued to edit it bit by bit, filling in missing scenes, expanding on others, and paying careful attention to fixing the typos and grammatical errors that overly populated the original version. I've always regretted that the fic-exchange deadline kicked my butt and I denied myself the time to edit properly and expand the story to match my grander plans. With some creatively applied duct tape and a lot of luck I may have managed to reshape this into a better piece of storytelling.
> 
> Still entirely dedicated to [](http://www.livejournal.com/users/derryere/profile)[**derryere**](http://www.livejournal.com/users/derryere/) because her stuff is made of AWESOME ♥ Last-minute editing and cheerleading thanks go to [](http://www.livejournal.com/users/dria_uesugi/profile)[**dria_uesugi**](http://www.livejournal.com/users/dria_uesugi/) :)

The battle ended much the same way every other one had; not with a quiet calm or a collective sigh of relief, but with the wailing of the wounded and dying rising over the fading roar of the wind. Camelot’s forces were retreating as quickly as the unnatural gale battering their backsides could spur them, putting as much distance as possible between their beaten soldiers and the remaining Druids who stood on the ravaged battlefield. The dark clouds that had collected low overhead were gradually lightening toward a more neutral shade of white, dispersing on the wind that was similarly herding their enemy away, and though no rain had fallen the air was sharp with ozone and the pungent scent of smoke and burnt flesh. Those who stood on the ground knew that it was only thanks to the sorcerer at their backs that the site had been spared from being washed away in a deluge, and a few eyes turned cautiously to regard the lone figure atop the hill behind them; long robe sleeves flapping in the wind, hands lifted toward the sky and with eyes glowing brighter than the shadowed sun, the wizard known as Emrys was a sight that could inspire even the hardiest of men to turn and flee.

When the gold finally faded from Merlin’s eyes Camelot’s army had fled out of sight beyond the trees on the horizon and the first shafts of yellow light were breaking through the smoky haze. He couldn’t help the shiver that ran through him as his senses returned within the frame of flesh and bone, feeling the shockingly warm touch of sun on the chilled skin of his stubble roughened face. For the first time since joining the battle he looked upon the field with eyes no better than a common man, and the panorama from atop the ridge of flattened boulders was a sight that made the combat scenes he’d seen depicted on the ornate tapestries hanging in Camelot’s stone halls tame by comparison. Dismembered bodies and murdered horses lay heaped over toppled battle standards and crushed plate armor, trampled flesh and broken bone and exposed entrails tangled together into an indistinguishable mess. Dozens of uprooted trees lay among the fallen, gnarled roots rigid and exposed to the air, their naked branches speared through enemy soldiers as if their chainmail had been no thicker than parchment. Three neck-deep muddy trenches were gravesites for those who’d been unfortunate enough to fall into them, and blackened patches of smoking soil marked where the earth had been left burned beyond recognition by the heat of a fire that only a sorcerer could conjure. The lingering echo of so much destructive magic was like a bitter taste on the back of Merlin’s tongue, a reminder of the power he’d wielded to crush bone and hurl trees across the field and tear limbs from their sockets. Under the sleeves of his robes goosebumps raced from neck to wrist as the sun emerged fully through the dissipating clouds, shining benignly upon the site of another heated clash in a long and bloody war that was tearing at the very core of Albion.

A sudden downwind brought the stench of blood and ash with it and Merlin held his breath as he swallowed past the urge to gag, immensely grateful that he hadn’t eaten yet that day. After more than two years of conflict some things could still turn his stomach and the carnage spread below was a nauseating reminder of his worst nightmares, the ones that came often and had been denying him a full night’s sleep for more months than he cared to count. Though the Druids’ victory was clear in the number of red and gold flags that littered the ground the reality of the aftermath always looked the same no matter who emerged victorious, and their own losses were heavy enough to warrant little reason to celebrate the victory. Even with the advantages of sorcery their finite numbers were dwindling at a frightening rate, and trustworthy allies were difficult to find in a country so tightly controlled by fear and hate of magic. It was a constant struggle to limit these clashes to more defensible locations, with the trees at their backs and archers hidden among the foliage, and the Pendragons had been given more than enough time to grow wise to their methods of warfare. More and more often they were being drawn out into the open, forced into battles where not even magic could hold up against the might of sheer numbers pressing against them. Today’s victory had given Camelot the heaviest losses in the end but Merlin knew better than to hope for a turnabout in the war – this was merely a scratch against the beast, one that was only bound to anger it further.

He could see in the distance that there were men and women moving across the field, some of the wounded walking of their own accord or stopping to help others, and many more being carried on make-shift stretchers toward the trees where the encampment of Druids had taken refuge. Up until yesterday they’d been hidden from the Pendragons’ contingent of determined spies and trackers but that brief respite had been shattered by the ranks of soldiers they’d found marching upon their doorstep before dawn. It was their call for aid that had brought Merlin to the moor before the morning fog had fully dissipated, and it was the overwhelming numbers sent to slaughter them that had set his teeth on edge as he cast protective spells and unleashed his magic on the enemy. It was the same story taking place in so many other places all across eastern Albion, with small camps forced to flee or face the armies being sent to raze them to the ground. They had managed to hold out for so long only thanks to the Druids’ defiance of using magic despite Uther Pendragon’s horrific attempts at purging the practice from his kingdom two decades earlier; a campaign that two years ago had been taken up once more, but this time by the tyrant king’s only son.

Uncontrolled fires still dotted the field and Merlin lifted a hand to extinguish them with a push of power and a flash of gold in his eyes, granting passage to the reinforcements that were attempting to get through to more of the injured. Farther out, men with blood stained swords patrolled through the muddy and overturned earth, searching through the corpses for enemy survivors. The occasional scream and shout for mercy could be heard wherever they found a subject of Camelot still alive, and they were merciless as they drove their swords through unprotected flesh or simply decapitated the soldiers where they’d fallen. It was a brutal but necessary measure, or so their leader claimed, as the Pendragons had no interest in ransoms or exchanging prisoners when their numbers were great enough to hardly mind the loss of a few men. The Druids in turn abhorred the idea of keeping alive soldiers who were only too glad to run their spears through women and children and raze camps until they were nothing more than ash and dust, save for those that retreated or fled in terror from the battlefield.

Now that he was no longer distracted by the heat of battle Merlin let his eyes drift skyward and sent a silent prayer to the gods for the lives that had been lost to the conflict, wishing them a quick journey to the Old Country. He could feel each death as the bonds between body and soul were severed, faint bursts of energy that skipped across his senses before melting into the ether. It was calming after the torrent of magic and volatile energy that had surrounded him earlier, and Merlin took comfort in the knowledge that this was simply another turn of a greater cycle. Those that had perished were renouncing their spirits to an ocean of much larger potential, a power that he’d come to know as the same essence that all magic drew from. Creation and destruction were two concepts that were almost redundant in the archaic school of the Old Ways, and in all honesty even Merlin sometimes had trouble distinguishing the two anymore.

Whether this was due to Nimueh’s machinations or simply a result of digging into his own powers, Merlin’s understanding of the Balance had come a long way since his earliest bumbling attempts with magic. There were few if any of the Druid sorcerers that seemed to have as deep an appreciation of the Old Ways as Merlin did, and as his abilities had manifested he’d come to accept how closely intertwined life and death truly were. There was a time when he had balked under the weight of that knowledge – to know that for every life he restored another was cast into the ether, that magic would always demand a price – but where there had once been incredulity was now sensible acceptance. It was difficult and pointless to resent something that operated on the basis of equilibrium, a power that moved without maliciousness or any sort of bias except for what the caster fed into it. Each death brought on by the Pendragons’ Second Purge was a certain promise that nature would find a way to reassert the balance, a fact he sometimes wished he’d known prior to his arrival at Camelot five years earlier. Gaius had believed that one’s moral duty to do good and useful things would produce results just as equitable, but Merlin was certain that he may have been better off living those years without the overwhelming guilt brought on by his ignorance. Some truths were indelible regardless of whether the intent was good or bad, and the reality of warfare meant that using his magic to take human lives was a skill he had to be very good at; despite what his old mentor might have had to say about it.

Even if Gaius would only have disparaging things to say about his uses of magic, it would probably be better than the solitude Merlin was forced to endure thanks to his uneasy friendship with the Druids and their vaulted leadership. He was accepted unconditionally on the battlefield as an ally because his abilities were extraordinary but his unconventional approaches to warfare, coupled with his seemingly limitless powers, had gradually ostracized him from the rest of the Druids. He’d gained a reputation for being reclusive and eccentric, a fault of his own as he’d sought to remove himself from being overly abused as some kind of trump card – he refused to only be seen as the final weapon brought forth to eradicate everything before him, never mind what consequences would arise from such a gross misuse of power. Even if he had been willing to comply with the Druids’ demands for victories at any cost his talent for commanding the forces of nature had always been suspect to them, with their necessity for years of dedicated training to master even the simplest of spells. Their inability to comprehend his magic had left him branded as an outsider from the beginning of their alliance, and it was a small blessing that none could imagine what depths his powers truly held. There was enough rumor and speculation already that questioned whether he was even fully human, and his greatest deeds were spoken around camp fires with equal parts hushed awe and horrified wonder. Many seemed to believe to some degree the same propaganda that the citizens of Camelot had been spoon fed since the war had begun – that the wizard in red was a devil in human guise, no less evil than the right hand of Death itself.

Uther Pendragon’s court had always been extremely efficient at turning the common people against magic and its practitioners, and the unbridled powers of the Druids and their sorcerers had cemented every fear building in Camelot’s citizens for over two decades. The name of Emrys was spoken warily on both sides of the field, as if invoking it would somehow call forth the wizard who stood as the embodiment of every wicked thing Camelot was attempting to wipe from the world. He was the Great Betrayer, the sorcerer that had fooled a kingdom and nearly brought it to its ruin, and in some minds directly responsible for bringing about the greatest war that Albion had seen in decades. Disobedient children were told he would visit them in their dreams and steal their souls, women feared every cough and ill omen as a mark of Emrys’ making, and men fleeing the battlefield told stories of seeing the wizard’s eyes glow blood red and how no sword or spear could touch him. Merlin had long passed the point of being bothered that no one was interested in knowing the truth behind the most hated wizard in history. The one person that might have come to his defense was hidden so well that neither magic or army could ever hope to discover them, and the other had left the world of the living so long ago that their name was little more than a memory.

Carrion birds were circling the field in the early afternoon when Merlin received his first visitor atop the ridge of earthfast boulders he’d claimed at the start of the battle. He stood with his back to them as the rush of wind delivering the other sorcerer stopped buffeting the edges of his robes, listening to the soft footfalls against the spongy moss as they approached from behind. They came to rest far enough away to be respectful but close enough that Merlin knew it wasn’t one of Mordred’s fledgling initiates sent into the lion’s den; the sound of their knees knocking in fear was easy to hear even at a distance. This one simply stood by and waited while Merlin’s hands made broad, sweeping motions in front of his eyes, like a painter smudging away the ugly mistakes on his canvas. Once the field had been cleared of the wounded he’d set about slowly and carefully coaxing the earth back into some likeness of its original state, as he’d done at so many other battle sites, directing waterways and replanting trees and pushing damp soil over every shallow grave. It was a pastime that Mordred viewed as a waste of time and energy, and Merlin was certain that the sorcerer who stood silently near him now would find this worth reporting once they returned to their master. It was one more thing in a long list that Mordred had been finding fault with Merlin for years, starting with his stubborn refusal to serve at the boy leader’s side like an obedient lapdog.

Merlin sent out a silent apology to the field of graves he’d been responsible for creating as the last of the atrocities were wiped clean from sight. He allowed his hands to drop and inhaled a steadying breath, letting the gold bleed from his eyes before he turned to face his visitor. He didn’t recognize the man who had appeared behind him, but it had been many months since he’d last visited any of the Druids’ camps. This sorcerer was pale skinned and freckled, with auburn hair that looked like copper in the sunlight, and he wore a close trimmed beard that matched the color of his hair and made him look older than he probably was. His robes were immaculate, green and blue and loose on the shoulders with a large hood in the style the Druids favored, similar to the crimson one Merlin wore. The man’s stance betrayed no impatience with being forced to wait, but there was a tightness around his mouth that could have hinted at any number of things; fear of the sorcerer in red possibly being one of them.

“What is it?” Merlin asked, not bothering to make the effort for politeness as he folded his hands into the voluminous sleeves of his robes. They were still trembling from the aftereffects of using so much of his power and he preferred not to make such a visible sign of his exhaustion shown to a young upstart with eyes and ears trained for his master’s use. He would have liked to depart then and there but it would be a while longer before his nerves felt capable of summoning the magic to whisk him away, and it was entirely possible that Mordred had counted on him being delayed by sending this apprentice so late in the day. Mordred’s spies were everywhere and Merlin knew that it was pointless to think that his appearance on the battlefield today had gone unnoticed; he had hoped to be left alone, but considering how long he had been able to avoid encountering one of Mordred’s brood up until now the meeting had an air of the inevitable.

“Emrys,” the man greeted formally despite Merlin’s frosty reception, bending into a low bow. “Lord Mordred has bid me to bring a message to you.”

This was hardly surprising. Merlin could probably recite from memory most of it, as Mordred had been trying to coerce Merlin back into his inner circle for the better part of a year and a half. Since the day Merlin had loudly voiced his opinions against their long-term plans and walked out of the war council the leader of the Druids had been searching persistently for ways to ensure his return. At times his methods tested the limits of Merlin’s patience, but sheer stubbornness seemed to be at least the one trait that he and Mordred shared in spades.

“I don’t wish or need to hear it,” Merlin informed the nameless man. “Tell your master I have other things to attend to, and I bid you good day.”

To his credit the sorcerer didn’t look bothered by such an abrupt dismissal, and Merlin had to at least admire the man for that. He’d either already been briefed on Merlin’s history with messengers or was the obstinate sort when it came to carrying out his missions. “My master only asks for a moment of your time. You would be most welcome at his camp, as he has important things he wishes to discuss with you.”

Publically, and in front of the rest of the council no doubt. Merlin had no desire to be paraded around like a disobedient hound brought to heel, to listen to Mordred take credit for his successes and then rebuke him for the small mercies he showed the enemy. Merlin had already learned that lesson during his first year with the Druids, and the blatant politics and petty power struggles had soured him enough to the council’s presence that he’d sworn off allowing them direct involvement in his actions from then on. It had estranged him from the favor of those in command, as well as many of the Druids who knew of his opinions on how the war was being handled, but Mordred remained tenaciously undaunted by Merlin’s refusals to be bridled and wielded like a tool at his disposal.

“But not important enough for him to come make the plea himself? That doesn’t instill a lot of faith in his word or the request. My answer is still no.”

“Emrys,” the man said imploringly, and that was something Merlin hadn’t expected to hear. “Please reconsider my Lord’s offer. The people need you now more than ever. Times are growing darker for all and they need to see that you stand with us. It would raise their spirits to know that the wizard Emrys has not abandoned them.”

“Abandoned?” Merlin repeated, a spark of anger twisting the word into a sneer. He gestured with one arm toward the restored field of mud and dirt that had been the site of a terrible battle not hours earlier. “So the things I do here – they’re so easily forgotten? Or all the battles I’ve stood in before? Where was your master today while his people died?”

The sorcerer’s face went stony and Merlin took his brief pleasure in the petty jab. “Lord Mordred is the greatest wizard to ever live and he will guide our people to victory, free of the tyranny of the Pendragons. He alone would protect you from the punishments the council have called for your disobedience. He only welcomes you with open arms yet you shun his kindness. I was told to warn you that his patience is not infinite.”

Merlin barely resisted the urge to roll his eyes. It was amazing how little the lies seemed to change with each one that was sent to try and bring Merlin back to the Druid’s side. The honest truth would have shocked these men and women were they to know where in the hierarchy their leader and master truly stood. Merlin knew without a doubt that he was the more powerful wizard of the two, and it was likely the sole reason that Mordred had never challenged him directly despite what lengths Merlin went to in his insubordination. Mordred’s leadership of the Druids depended upon their belief that he was their strongest sorcerer, and maintaining his position would always mean more to him than forcing Merlin to submit to his authority. It was this that Merlin counted on to keep the younger man from forcing his hand, at least until the day that Mordred’s well-worn patience finally snapped.

Underneath all of the words and the posturing, Mordred might have harbored secret fears that Merlin coveted his role as leader of the Druids. But Merlin had no desire for the rank or to shoulder the politics it entailed. When it came to dealing with the armies of Camelot, Merlin could understand the contempt that Mordred openly had for his methods and his habit of letting the enemy retreat rather than slaughtering them to the last man. Mordred’s hatred for the Pendragons – compounded by the events of his childhood and by the years of watching his people slaughtered simply for embracing the Old Ways – had hardened him into a single-minded and ruthless leader. For all that Merlin did to protect the Druids from the crush of Camelot’s vendetta, he lacked the bitter hatred that fueled Mordred desire to see his people emerge overwhelmingly victorious. Mordred’s long-term plans involved not only eliminating Camelot’s army, but also its sovereign and heir and any kin tied to the royal court that might oppose the Druids or their practices. In Merlin’s eyes this made the boy-leader no better than Uther Pendragon himself, but that was the sort of vocal sentiment that had expelled him from the council in the first place.

Few knew the entire truth of how Merlin had come to side with the Druids or what events were responsible for precipitating the start of the Second Purge, and Merlin’s private shame would never fashion him into the leader these people needed. Besides, there were far more important things at stake than simply winning a war, and Merlin was already looking beyond the battlefields to the much larger picture. The conflict had become much more than simply another volatile collision between the Pendragons and magic; it was another symptom of a disease that had taken hold of Camelot more than two decades earlier, and until that festering source was rooted out Albion was doomed to fall into civil war in a never-ending cycle. The price would continue to be paid in the deaths of thousands falling victim to hate and fear, and that was something Merlin simply couldn’t accept, not when he’d been gifted with the power to do such incredible things. He had worried over the problem until an irrational but tempting solution had finally presented itself, and it was a plan so foolish, so unusual, that Merlin was sure that had he been younger or a little saner he would never have given it a second thought. But the idea had panned out unexpectedly into a means that had the potential to change everything. All that mattered now was keeping Mordred ignorant of his plans. Though monumentally irritating, the appearance of yet another bootlicking acolyte was the surest sign Merlin had that Mordred and his council had yet to discover his true goals. He knew that were this not the case, he would find himself facing something much worse than just another messenger spouting empty threats.

It was time to send this man on his way in the same manner he did all such messengers. Merlin unfolded his arms to spread his hands, their trembling having subsided, and dredged up a false smile of good will. “My apologies then. Please tell your master his concern is appreciated but unnecessary. My answer remains the same as it’s always been. I’m more useful fighting on the field than stuck in some tent debating strategy, and he knows this. I have my duties and he has his – I only ask to be left in peace.”

“Peace is not something any of us have. You should know this better than anyone,” the sorcerer said. He looked momentarily unsettled by his candor but continued on after a moment, something bright with a hint of desperation in his eyes. “Though our forces are great and my master trains us daily, we are losing too many to the armies of Camelot. The people grow frightened, uncertain of our future, and our hope dwindles with every life that is lost. The face of Emrys is known to only a few, yet you are legendary among our people and anathema to the Pendragons. Your name inspires terror and hope alike – only imagine what your presence among our ranks would do to bolster our spirits if you would allow us to train under you. My master only wishes you to see these things as he does, as we all do. Will you not return to us?”

Merlin had to praise the man for his appearance of sincerity, for the way he seemed to genuinely believe that Emrys was their singular hope for winning a war that had already gone on for too many years. If he had been less certain of his own plans this plea might have been the one to undo him. It seemed that the Druids were feeling the drag of too many battles as well, the creeping despair of watching so many of their people die fighting or burned alive in their camps. It was a pity that they had taken so long to open their eyes to the truth of where their rebellion stood, but Merlin’s heart had become made of much harder stuff.

“It won’t change my mind,” Merlin replied with more care than his previous answers, and it was the closest to a real apology he’d ever come to. “Please go back and give Mordred my answer. I’m already where I’m meant to be, standing on the front lines and helping people, saving lives when I can. I’ll just have to wait for him to accept that, too.”

The man looked ready to say more but the sharp cry of an owl’s screech pierced the air, and Merlin turned gratefully toward the bird that was swooping toward them from the west. The tiny speck of brown gradually grew into the shape of a tawny owl and Merlin stretched out his arm to provide a landing perch as his companion approached the hilltop. The thick sleeve of his robe afforded some protection against the owl’s sharp talons, but the sound of tearing fabric as the owl landed was all too familiar. Merlin smiled as he brushed his free hand down the bird’s backside, smoothing feathers and offering a little bit of magic to the weary muscles that had to be tired after flying for so long.

“I’m glad to see you return, Archimedes. What news of the army?” Merlin asked, addressing the owl.

There were no words exchanged as such, but the owl let out a short string of chirps and warbles, his head cocking and swiveling to the side. The bird’s luminous golden eyes blinked briefly at Merlin’s visitor when he finished his message, before he walked up the length of Merlin’s arm to find a perch on his shoulder. The expression on the sorcerer’s face only registered shock and surprise, and Merlin was left with the feeling that the owl’s presence was another element to the legend of Emrys that not all had thought to be true.

“My friend tells me that Camelot’s forces are retreating to Bemshire,” Merlin relayed. “With the losses they suffered they’ll need at least a few days to recover and assemble reinforcements. It would be best to move the injured to a safer location and set up wards, somewhere more fortified where their spies can’t reach. This forest can’t hold the camps we have here indefinitely, and now that they know we’ve taken refuge here they’ll only come back with greater numbers. They will need to move again.”

Merlin was glad to see the sorcerer nod in understanding, though his gaze continued to drift away to the owl on his shoulder before coming back to Merlin’s face. It was growing increasingly bothersome, and the beard didn’t make him look nearly as old as Merlin had originally thought. “I will report this information to Lord Mordred at once.”

“Thank you,” Merlin said, and Archimedes echoed it with a trilling hoot.

When he didn’t depart immediately, Merlin folded his arms and waited. It seemed out of place now, given his verboseness earlier, but the young man seemed to be considering his next words with some hesitation. “And the Pendragons… what should I tell my master?”

If there was any indication on Merlin’s face that his chest had tightened uncomfortably at the mention of Camelot’s royal family, he could only hope that the sorcerer hadn’t noticed. “Neither was on the field today. It’s doubtful that either of them will make an appearance with only a camp or two at stake.”

The sorcerer looked askance at Archimedes with no effort to hide his skepticism. “Is this information entirely reliable?”

“I would have known,” Merlin snapped irritably. The man’s attitude and the ill-timed mention of his former master were peaking his frustration beyond the point of feigned niceties, even though a small voice of reason cautioned against revealing so much emotion to one of Mordred’s emissaries.

Merlin knew from firsthand experience that he would have felt Arthur’s presence on the field whether consciously seeking him or not, and Uther’s storming hatred had always been like a black smear on his senses when the man was nearby. Such small campaigns rarely involved the presence of one or the other, and two battalions sent to raze another encampment hardly warranted either Camelot’s King or Crowned Prince to lead their men when the orders were always the same: burn everything, take no prisoners. Kill everyone.

The sorcerer bowed quickly and apologetically, showing the first bit of sense that Merlin had seen out of him. “Thank you, Emrys. I will deliver your report to Lord Mordred. But before I depart, there is one other message I was tasked to bring you. If I may?”

Merlin frowned in consideration before nodding, more curious that he’d been asked rather than simply told, which made Mordred or one of his council members a less likely source. “I’ll hear it, then.”

The man reached inside his robe and withdrew a folded slip of paper, a square less than the size of his hand, and walked the short distance between them to pass it over. Merlin took it but did not open it.

“Lady Morgana only instructed me to give this letter to you. She did not tell me anything more, only that if you were to read it you would know what to do.”

“You speak for Lady Morgana?” Merlin asked in genuine surprise. He might have wondered at the strange connection between an unknown sorcerer and Morgana, but his annoyance with the wary gaze the man kept slipping over to Archimedes snuffed any inklings of curiosity. Nothing but rumor and tall tales, and an owl that could speak to a human was something to be fearful of. And they wondered why Merlin was in no hurry to rush back into their circle of bone casting and anachronistic god worshipping.

“Yes, sir. I’ve had the privilege of spending some time under her tutelage. Shall I send back a reply?”

“No, that’s not necessary,” Merlin said, fingering the folds of the letter. There was magic in the parchment, subtle, enough that he could feel the charge beneath the tips of his fingers. It was a practical spell, bonded there for some particular use and harmless in nature, but it piqued Merlin’s interest anyway. A letter from Morgana was unusual enough. Over the years she’d become a woman who was perhaps even more mysterious and revered than Merlin within the inner circle of the Druids, and Mordred was fiercely protective of his witch and the visions she provided him. The last time they had spoken she had already been a shadow of her former self, prone to speaking in riddles and tongues, and Merlin had fled from her nonsense with his ears ringing and his stomach colder than a winter storm. He did not care for a repeat of that encounter.

Merlin was distracted enough that he didn’t notice when the sorcerer stepped back to take his leave, only looking up after the man had lifted his hands and spoken the incantation to carry him away. The whirlwind that churned beneath his feet formed quickly and was gone in a matter of seconds, the man gone along with it. Merlin and Archimedes were left alone on their hill with only the sound of the wind in the trees and an empty field of heather that was now a gravesite for the dead behind them. There was nothing left but the sunlight on his head and the note in his hand, and something that felt like the hand of Fate once more reaching out to clasp him by the shoulder – a touch he had been struggling to shrug off for years, with what felt like little success.

Merlin unfolded the note and found only a few lines scrawled in shaky penmanship; it resembled nothing like the elegant longhand Morgana had once been capable of.

 _You must STOP this path beyond  
only emptydarkness lies I have Seen  
NOTHING you bring the end of times_

Merlin read the note twice more before his eyes left the paper, and when they did he slowly folded the letter but did not put it away. He couldn’t deny that among the garble and scrawl a few words had jumped off the page, and they were more telling than anything else of what exactly Morgana was claiming to have Seen. Merlin shifted his shoulders uncomfortably, aware that though Morgana’s mind was lost her eyes had always remained remarkably all-knowing, and he could feel the weight of them settling with acute attention upon him. It had always been a risk that her abilities might uncover his plans for ending the war, but it was also much sooner than he’d anticipated needing to deal with the threat of discovery. Merlin couldn’t deny the cold churning in his gut as anything but dread, and it was sorely tempting to simply burn the letter then and there, more for the satisfaction of the act than it being a means of diverting her.

Morgana was not the true threat to his scheme, but rather Mordred’s inevitable involvement in preventing Merlin from winning the war on his terms. And if Morgana knew (before even Merlin himself could have said with absolute certainty that his efforts would be successful), Mordred would not be far behind. Morgana’s loyalties had long ago shifted away from the Pendragons, perhaps before Merlin had even stepped foot in Camelot, and her relationship with Mordred left few secrets between them. Merlin’s greatest chance for success had always rested on the assumption that he would have the necessary time to perfect the spells he’d painstakingly drafted and researched, which was ironic given that Time was the very thing he’d set out to control.

Whatever Morgana had Seen, it had left her rattled enough to try and keep him from continuing his research. In a strange twist of irony, it was Merlin’s first confirmation that his plans were not destined for failure. The uncomfortable knot in his stomach loosened at the realization, giving way to a small kernel of hope that he may have discovered a way to toss free the shackles of Fate after all.

Even if Morgana was aware of his efforts to change the past, he’d spent too many long months searching for answers, devoted too much of his magic and his soul to turn back on the path he’d set. Abandoning his efforts would be no different than letting the Druids win in their conquest of revenge or letting the Pendragons complete their mad designs for genocide. Stopping now meant leaving Morgana at the mercy of her insanity, forsaking Gaius to obscurity, and condemning Arthur to his grief; they were concessions that Merlin could not accept.

“It isn’t madness if it saves us all,” Merlin declared to the note in his hand, squeezing the edges so that it crumpled into a ball. “Maybe this time is meant to end.”

The magic in the parchment warmed suddenly under his fingers. Not expecting the sudden change, Merlin sent the wad of paper sailing through the air with a flick of his wrist. It traveled through a gentle arc and, at some mid-point between his hand and the ground, disappeared with a quiet pop. Merlin watched the space where it had disappeared for a moment, attempting to probe the void for an explanation, but nothing was forthcoming. The note’s disappearance did not bode well, as objects belonging to a sorcerer tended to return to their master, and Merlin had as good as outright refused to heed Morgana’s warning.

“Archimedes,” Merlin said to the owl perched quietly on his shoulder. “We have to move quicker than I planned. I think our time is running out.”

The soft edge of a wingtip brushed the collar of his robe and Merlin sighed and shut his eyes briefly at the reassuring touch. When he opened them the irises were golden and bright, and with little more than a brief gust of air the hilltop returned to being empty once more.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A heavy dose of necessary exposition. Final edits and spit-polish all courtesy of [](http://www.livejournal.com/users/dria_uesugi/profile)[**dria_uesugi**](http://www.livejournal.com/users/dria_uesugi/) ♥

The great hall of the abandoned church was perpetually damp and susceptible to the northern winds, arctic driven gusts that were growing in strength as each day drew closer to the end of the season. Much of the roof had fallen in over time and gaping holes in the walls continued to crumble from erosion and the weather, making it difficult for Merlin to keep candles alight in the vast room even with the use of magic. A raised dais had been moved into the center (Merlin remembered how difficult it had been to levitate the slab of granite across the chamber) and upon the stone platform he’d erected a crude arch just big enough for a man to pass through using pieces of stone gathered from the crumbled ruins of the church. Over the course of many months the uneven blocks had acquired a twisting design of symbols carved carefully by hand into the rough stone, and Merlin’s fingers still bore the scars and calluses of their painstaking production. His hands had a habit of aching each time he looked at the small monument, as they were doing now, and Merlin took a moment to rub the stiff tendons as he set down his quill and leaned against one of his workbenches. The encroaching evening had deepened the shadows considerably in the farthest corners of the wide room, and with a self-deprecating sigh Merlin realized that night had fallen once again before he’d become aware of the passing time.

The solitary arch in the center of the room seemed to draw what little light there was left toward it. It was impressive, both in stature and in its design, especially since Merlin had spent the majority of his life never laying eyes on a single rune, let alone known of spells that could be spoken as well as written to give them power. How greatly his wizard predecessors, in their dusty tomes and in the ancient spellbooks he’d studied extensively, had underestimated the determination of a man in Merlin’s position; how soon the forbidden had become something that could be tested and refined, despite the shadowed warnings that had decried everything he was attempting as taboo. It had taken months of failed experiments before he’d achieved his first promising milestone, one that was heralded by an unharmed and slightly disoriented rat popping into existence on the other side of the arch after he’d personally thrown it between the pillars more than five hours earlier. The dazed creature had been snatched up by Archimedes immediately after, who was already cross over being deprived of a meal that evening, but Merlin had been too preoccupied with shouting jubilantly to the ceiling to care that he’d lost another test subject. In less than a year and not even twenty-four winters himself, he’d managed to venture where no wizard had dared to tread before. He’d learned to manipulate the very flow of Time itself.

He had Morgana to thank for the single-minded drive that had led to his creation of the arch, as her warning to cease his research seven months earlier had entrenched him even more deeply in his efforts to turn his wild theories into reality. Up until that Spring day he’d hardly dared to imagine that it might take anything less than years to achieve his goal of time travel, if he managed it at all, and every obstacle until that point had only seemed to reaffirm what few, obscure references to the subject he had managed to dig up in his research. There were reasons countless generations of magic users before him had refused to pursue that particular avenue of study – it was called it a perversion of the very laws of nature, a power that no single man could ever hope to harness without destroying themselves in the process, and there were numerous nights that Merlin had lain awake wondering at those warnings and whether the path he was heading down was leading to success or annihilation. But with so many things at stake, a country torn by so much warfare and hate that it overshadowed even the threat of his demise, Merlin had to believe that certain rules were meant to be broken. When the very future of the world and hundreds, if not thousands of lives were at risk, it was either accomplish the impossible or slowly go insane under the weight of his own regrets.

Merlin began to clear his workstation before retiring for the evening, and in the back of his mind a part of him still wondered uneasily at his calm acceptance of what lay in store for him in the near future. He was only a short step away from a goal that had been driven far more by guilt and desperation than sensible reason, something which he knew should have alarmed him rather than given him the brief moments of pride he felt for his accomplishments. But in large part Merlin imagined his feelings were akin to a man facing the certainty of knowing that there was nothing more left in his life to be done. He was under no illusions that he hadn’t dedicated seven months to caring for nothing beyond these stone walls or the battles that raged beyond it, or that he’d effectively destroyed any chance of moving forward in this future in the wake of his betrayal to the Druids. There had been only one objective on his mind since he’d returned to the church with Morgana’s prediction etched in his memory, one that he was determined to see through to the end or perish in the process. He had little else to live for except for this last chance to make a difference, no one left to protect that would even want his aid, no allies or friendly faces save for an owl that was too loyal to know any better. He would either find himself in a world on the other side where he could put the wrongs of this one to right, or die trying in the effort to reach it.

As Merlin waved a hand to extinguish the last of the candles spaced around the dais he turned his thoughts to far less disheartening concerns. He had items to pack and clothes to mend before he could be considered presentable to the world again, and Merlin knew that he’d been more than absentminded about things like trimming his hair more than once every few months this past year. He’d been so wrapped up in his research that he’d abandoned the kind of personal hygiene that he’d once been used to taking for granted, one that years spent in the service of a fastidious prince had wormed into his daily life. Those kinds of daily ablutions had quickly become frivolous once he’d turned every waking hour to pouring over his notes or dusting his arms up to the elbows in rock and crystal powder. Warm baths had been traded for quick rinses in cold well water, fresh linens on a stuffed mattress relinquished for whatever stool and hard surface was available to lay his head on, and washing laundry forgone in favor of more quick-cleaning spells than Merlin had ever used while at Camelot. He hadn’t looked at his reflection in months and wasn’t in a hurry to do so either, unsure whether he’d even recognize the face that would look back at him.

Merlin exited the great hall through a set of doors at the far end and shut them once again with a protesting squeal of rusted iron hinges. He placed both palms against the wood and silently invoked the runes of protection he’d set around the chamber many months earlier, wards that had become increasingly necessary as Mordred grew bolder in his attempts to force Merlin out of hiding. It had taken longer than Merlin expected for the Druids to discover that his prolonged disappearance off the battlefield hinted at a more serious insubordination, and it had been nearing the end of summer before Merlin felt the first vibrations of his outer defenses being attacked. The complex levels of wards he’d erected around the church would not fall easily to Mordred’s sorcerers, and their ongoing efforts to peel away the onion layers of magic surrounding the ruins had kept them more than amply occupied for the past several months. But Merlin was not foolish enough to think that he was protected forever, and with Morgana’s Sight, Mordred had all the necessary tools to discover that Merlin was within reach of destroying his plans for winning the war. The relative isolation he’d endured so far would not last to the week’s end, of this Merlin was sure, and it was no coincidence that with every successful test of his arch the attacks had seemed to grow more severe.

Even with his success of sending a living creature through time, the blossoming scientist in Merlin had realized that it would be foolish to simply walk through the arch and hope for the best. His need for verifiable proof had already set him back almost several weeks, a month of feeling the ground tremble with greater frequency as his wards were attacked over and over. One week ago he’d commandeered the help of a very moody owl that hadn’t take kindly to being awoken so early in the day, but ten hours later Archimedes had only hooted at him in irritation after reappearing and flown off to sleep on one of the rafters of the great hall. The morning after he’d nearly tripped over the splintered remains of his stool where it had landed near the door, and he’d waited four days more before sending the original by his workbench through the portal, making sure to throw it as hard as he could in the direction of the far wall. In that span of time the Druids managed to take down another one of his outer barriers with an impressive blast that had sent Merlin scrambling under a table as bits of stone and dust rained down on his head from the shockwave. There were only two left now between he and his attackers, but Merlin was more than certain that it would take them longer to break through than it would for him to create the last breach through Time he would ever attempt. They would be too late to stop him.

Merlin left the great hall behind and summoned up a pale blue ball of light to guide his way as he walked the gloomy corridor toward the direction of his room. The remains of the abandoned church had left only a handful of chambers suitable for human occupation, and the room Merlin had claimed had probably once upon a time belonged to the vicar or record keeper if the numerous, dilapidated bookshelves he’d discovered had been anything to go by. Merlin had been happy to repair the shelves and nudge the broken pieces of wood back into place for his own uses, and he’d scavenged whatever useful pieces of furniture he could find out of the few rooms that had survived without collapsed walls or water damage. The sum total of his personal affects came down to two additional sets of clothes and a startling collection of books and scrolls, many of which were in his quarters as often as they were in the main hall by his workbenches, and those were hard-fought acquisitions that would certainly have put his head on the chopping block if the Pendragons ever caught him within breathing distance of them. They were his most valuable tools in his research and worth more than their weight in gold, and it was only thanks to them that Merlin had managed to succeed in turning an idea as radical as time travel into reality.

Merlin entered his room and found Archimedes already settled on his favorite perch, a leaning structure he’d cobbled together from pieces of a broken chair shortly after they began occupying the church. With a pointed glance toward the rusted stove the kindling inside sprang to life with a tiny burst of flame and the iron door shut with a snap. Archimedes hooted and Merlin extended a hand toward the tawny owl to stroke his back feathers in passing.

“Almost time, old friend. I felt them dismantle another corner of the outer ward today, the persistent dogs. It would take too much energy to construct a new one, and pointless, really. This place won’t matter soon, will it?”

Archimedes shook his feathers flat and Merlin frowned as he waved a hand to dissipate the blue light floating near his head. “I should know by now not to say those kinds of things. I don’t know for certain that leaving here will make any difference. They might continue to beat down these walls even when I’m gone. Everyone and everything may go right on living and whatever I do won’t change a thing because it’s already happened. Just like that stool, you remember? I still hate that I can’t know for certain what that means, if the past has already happened, if it’s all destined to turn out the same anyway...” Merlin paused and then sighed loudly. “I’ve already said all of this a hundred times over, haven’t I? You’ve listened to me ramble about this so much I don’t know why you haven’t learned how to speak yet.”

Archimedes opened his beak and snapped it shut once, and Merlin accepted it for the good-humored mockery that it was. He smiled wanly and turned away to open the shutters on the room’s single window, the fresh night air spilling into the room and carrying with it the scent of moss and cold earth. Merlin braced his hands on the stone sill and blinked several times through the lingering ache behind his forehead, one he was familiar with after spending too long in the great hall reading in weak candlelight. “I won’t know until I try. That’s what we decided. There’s nothing here for me now, not anymore. Gaius is long gone and this war isn’t going to stop until everyone in Albion is dead. Even if I die after stepping through the portal, at least I’ll have done something.”

Tired and refusing to turn melancholy from the direction of his thoughts, Merlin moved to sit down on the edge of his pallet and removed his boots and jacket. The blanket and straw mattress on his bed were old and threadbare and had gone through their fair share of cleaning and repair spells, though charming them for softness had never seemed to make them as comfortable as Merlin would have liked. A dilapidated table stood next to the bed frame with a lonely candlestick on top, so splintered and worn that it was held together more by magic than by its screws and pegs. Merlin snapped his fingers over the wick to set it alight and rose to see what remained of the creamed porridge left on top of the stove from that morning’s breakfast.

Archimedes departed later for his evening hunt and Merlin was left alone to continue packing away his personal items. At some point he’d managed to acquire a leather satchel before his permanent departure from the battlefield, and into it he’d spent the last few days shrinking and stuffing his books and scrolls and any notes he’d kept on his research. He was aware that he would have to travel light while crossing through Time, but abandoning all of his worldly possessions seemed foolish when it was uncertain when exactly he would arrive, if he did at all. Anything he was able to bring might prove vital in completing whatever task was needed to prevent the war from happening.

Merlin had pondered extensively what he was certain was the root problem once the vast possibilities of time travel had become apparent. Uther Pendragon lay at the heart of the conflict between Camelot and magic, yet Merlin knew from his own experiences with Arthur and stories told by the older Druids that this had not always been the case. Uther’s personal vendetta against magic and against the Druids in particular had been no more than a gross misuse of power by a man held in the throes of grief and loss; a particular character trait that Merlin had come to realize, too late, was shared by both father and son. From the tales told by those who remembered a time before the First Purge, Merlin knew that Uther’s rise to kingship had been fraught with acts of passion and that his wife had been the calm that tempered his wild moods. With the loss of Igraine, Camelot seemed almost destined to become a country torn by the emotional instability of a man too wholly devoted to alleviating his grief through mass persecution.

Whether it would be necessary to kill Uther before he could fully sow the seeds of hate for magic or discover a way to prevent the death of Arthur’s mother, Merlin’s course of action was entirely dependent upon when the arch sent him. It was the one element that he had failed to learn to control with any sort of certain reliability, and his experiments had only revealed that the amount of energy needed increased the farther through time an object was sent. Predicting the exact time of arrival was impossible and sending himself through the arch would be the first and last time he would attempt to traverse across years, if not decades. If Gaius were around no doubt he would have provided some much needed words of wisdom for Merlin to consider, or called him out on being ten kinds of foolish for dedicating the last year of his life to a risky plan that had no guarantee of success.

He turned to sorting through his few spare clothes in the evening candlelight once his remaining scrolls and books were packed. Everything was relatively clean and intact except for robes, which he discovered were marred by a dark patch of some unidentifiable stain at the hem. It was a garment he’d not worn since that final day on the battlefield which meant the mess was either mud or blood or both. Though mildly disturbing to consider, it required no more than a simple spell to clean, which was par for the course of his nonexistent laundry skills. His boots were old but still fit well, buckles tarnished but serviceable, and he’d replaced the heels not half a year earlier. His neckerchiefs were long gone, absent in favor of the hooded robe he’d been gifted by the Druids – a symbol of their alliance with the sorcerer – and it had survived all of the fighting remarkably intact. It had been several years since Merlin had needed to approach his appearance with a critical eye, but this one-way journey demanded that no detail be left unchecked. He would be traveling with nothing more than the clothes on his back and what he could carry along at his side, no hope of help if events were to turn for the worst and no friendly faces to count on for aid. Merlin would once more be the solitary soldier fighting against the future, a role that he at least felt confident he’d had quite a bit of experience in.

Even after more than half a year away from the front lines, Merlin found it difficult to forget what it had been like to stand at the head of the Druid army and fling the fires of destruction from his hands, or how it had felt to listen to the screams of the dying as the earth had heaved and opened under their feet. Though the metallic scent of blood had gradually been replaced by the damp odor of moss and cold stone, there were few nights when the nightmares left him at peace long enough to sleep through to the dawn. It had been half a year since he’d last stood on a decimated battlefield and even longer since he’d last set eyes upon Arthur from a distance, wearing armor that was intimately familiar to Merlin by touch-memory alone. Years more since he’d even been close enough to see the color of Arthur’s eyes, and one day more since the last time he’d touched the wrinkled skin on Gaius’ hands and felt the strength of his arms as he was hugged and then pushed away and told to run, run and never come back.

“Do you think I’m still running, Gaius?” Merlin asked aloud as he prepared for bed later in the evening, looking down at his hands and the crisscrosses of scars that stood out in the candlelight. “You’d think I know better but… it’s like I’m always running, like I don’t know how to do anything else anymore. We both know that’s all I’ve done since this war started. I used to hate it, I think. Remember how you’d tell me to go and I’d always double back? How many times did I try to save the day even when I didn’t know any better? How young and stupid I used to be back then…”

Merlin smiled briefly at his own reminiscing before growing somber again. “I suppose this time you can be proud I’m listening to you. Does it really matter, whether I’m running from the council or from the future? It’d be nice to hear some advice… you always had a wise word for me, even when I didn’t want to listen. I wish I had a better memory for that sort of thing. Couldn’t I hear it just this once? I’m having trouble even remembering your voice anymore…”

Merlin fell quiet and listened, breath held and heart tapping a noisy rhythm in his ears. But the flickering candlesticks failed to disrupt the silence and his unanswered request continued to hang alone in the air. He sighed after a long moment, hating that he felt any disappointment at all, and continued to undress.

As he removed and set aside each article of clothing the items folded themselves neatly atop the stool near his bed, waiting to be cleaned and worn again in the morning. Sometime around his first month living in the church he’d grown tired of losing his socks and had charmed most of his possessions to follow a simple set of instructions, as housekeeping was much easier when his shoes were hopping at the foot of his bed in the morning and a cup of hot tea was waiting for him at his workbench. Twice already he’d been saved from falling down the well on the south slope of the ruins thanks to a sharp tug on the back of his jacket, and he had no want for food when his meals were made for him and no worry of finding Archimedes’ regurgitated pellets in his bed when the sheets cleaned themselves. Over time it had made for some unexpected moments as the charmed items began to display odd hints of self-preservation, like the incident when a book had leaped away to save itself from being knocked onto his stove, or when he’d been awoken one morning by the skittering of his entire collection of quills chasing a family of hungry mice down the church corridor. With no other humans for company they at least gave Merlin an outlet for his curiosity, as his solitude had only worsened his habit of speaking aloud to himself.

Merlin pulled his spare sleeping shirt over his head, sniffing at the fabric as it slipped past his nose. Not exactly clean, but no worse than the sheets he would be sleeping on either. His bare feet were feeling chilled from the cold night air and Merlin summoned a pair of socks into his hand, the items darned enough that they looked horribly puckered by the broad stitches sewn into them. Merlin sat down on the edge of his bed and thoughtfully rolled them one on each foot.

“Alright then, tell me what you think of this one: running away from certain death, or running toward it?” Merlin let the silence answer him for a moment, biting his bottom lip contemplatively. “I’m so close I could leave tomorrow if I wanted to. Bet you never thought I’d be able to even say that. I don’t want to push my luck, but… can I afford to wait any longer?”

Merlin ran a hand through his unkempt hair, a habit he hardly took notice of anymore, feeling the length of it where it ran down over his ears. “They’ve done nothing but beat on my doorstep every day and if they get through that’ll be the end. Everything I’ve worked on will be destroyed. I can’t let Mordred come anywhere near the arch, not when he knows what it can do. He’ll hunt me down to get my secrets and I’d rather die than try to build it again. I think that’s why you never agreed to let me do this. But to do nothing, without even trying… I can’t walk away from all of this when I’m so close. You understand, don’t you?”

With no answer coming forth again, Merlin focused his gaze on Archimedes’ empty perch, a sudden chill spreading across the inside of his ribcage. The arguments and the silences were always the same, and he’d become his own worst adversary these past several months. “Gaius, am I going to change anything?” he wondered aloud to the empty room, voice hushed with honest fear. “I wish... I just wish I knew for certain. I wish I had a way to look and see. Was this always going to happen? Could the dragon have known? I could have done something, talked to him once more, before he tried to escape… before they slaughtered him for meat to feed their armies. ‘If only I’d done this, if only I’d done that,’ that’s all I’ve said for years, even I’m beyond sick of it. What else is there left to do? This wasn’t the way it was meant to happen, maybe not the way the dragon said but nothing like this... could I really be the only sane person left who sees that?”

Merlin was quiet for a moment and then snorted at his own inanity. “I suppose that doesn’t count for much when I’m talking to a ghost again.”

Forgoing asking questions that were never going to be answered he looked about his room, taking in the newly Spartan state. All of the shelves were empty and his satchel sat leaning against the base of Archimedes’ perch looking lumpy and stretched to the seams. His dinner had cleaned itself up once he’d turned to the task of packing, and the coals in the stove’s grate glowed warmly with enough magic to last through the night. Merlin leaned to the side and blew out the candle nearest him, causing the rest in the room to extinguish and throw the space into abrupt darkness. He rolled onto his pallet with the familiar rustle of ticking and goose feathers and lay staring up at the wood beam ceiling, observing the arrangement of silver light and shadows as his eyes adjusted to the gloom.

Archimedes would not be back for some time, but enough moonlight shone through the open window that Merlin didn’t fear for his friend’s safety outside of the church walls. Mordred’s sorcerers were the only real threat that Merlin needed to keep vigilant of, and Archimedes was too intelligent to stray outside of the protective wards and leave himself vulnerable to attack. The church was an ideal place for a fortification, situated on a tall hill and with a wealth of untapped magic churning beneath the ground, more than Merlin had found anywhere else in Albion. It was pure happenstance that he’d chanced upon the ruins almost two years ago, following a northern leading leyline that conveniently took him in the opposite direction of a war council he’d been ordered to attend. His search for the source of that power had led to the church, perched atop a mound with nothing but green grassland and forest in every direction, left derelict and to ruin for tens if not hundreds of years. Merlin hadn’t been able to help feeling charmed by the decrepit building with its collapsed walls and tumbled towers, and he was impressed by the care shown in the architecture that aided in funneling the unharnessed magic directly into the space below the great hall. Until that point, short of making his camp on the Isle of the Blessed (already the site of too many battles, ground so blood-soaked and thick with death that it was a far more appropriate place for the dark magic of necromancy), the lines that ran under the ruins were the richest Merlin had found for tapping into the magic of the Old Ways. He’d set his first wards about the church that same day, hiding it from sight and masking the true extent of magic buried below it, but it wasn’t until the day he’d received Morgana’s letter that he’d retreated to it permanently.

With his abrupt departure from the front lines behind him, Merlin couldn’t help wondering at times how the rest of the world was faring – if Camelot’s forces had been successful in overrunning the Druids, or if Mordred’s underlings had been trained enough to step into the gap he’d left behind. Merlin had always thought of them as a talented but misguided lot, young men and women and even children being taught to fight with magic and to hate Camelot and everything it represented. He could sympathize with the despair and the anger felt by those that followed the Old Religion, but it was equally easy to understand the fear felt by those that marched under the flag of Camelot when they could hardly be expected to comprehend the invisible forces they were fighting. And maybe that’s what had given Merlin the ability to view the conflict from the outside, to search for solutions when others were only devising the next way to destroy each other. There were times when his curiosity had tempted him to check on the world beyond, but scrying on the Druids would be no better than stepping outside his wards and surrendering to the allies. It had left his nightmares with the task of providing the most gruesome and unpleasant possibilities of what his absence was bringing upon the war. If not for those sorcerers who were increasingly determined to break through his barriers, Merlin would have no other way of knowing that those who practiced magic were still among the living.

Merlin yawned and moved his arm to tuck it behind the pillow under his head. Despite his exhaustion he could feel his thoughts circling, which wasn’t uncommon late at night. He’d done little else but think about the war and the horrors it had wrought and the reasons for what had caused it to break out between the two sides. In the year leading up to what would become the Second Purge, Merlin had not been ignorant of Camelot’s deteriorating foothold against magic and in many ways had been an active participant in further antagonizing each side against the other. Things had been strained long before he’d been forced to flee the city, and the tension had been escalating with every attack aimed at ending Arthur’s life or toppling Uther off his throne and taking the kingdom with it. There were times when Merlin had felt like a week couldn’t go by without someone or something attempting to cause trouble, and the brash attempts on both Uther and Arthur’s lives had forced Merlin to step in with greater and greater risk of exposing his own secret. Given the circumstances, it may have been inevitable that he would be discovered eventually.

Until his exposure as a sorcerer, Merlin had never truly understood just how terrible the retribution would be once the truth of his identity became known. He hadn’t fled from the city despite Gaius’ dire warnings, not at first at least, some part of him still optimistic that things would turn out alright once Uther saw reason given that Merlin had risked his life to save Arthur’s yet again. But the shortcomings of his ignorance had been grossly misjudged, and Gaius had been arrested within hours of Merlin’s flight from the castle. The physician had been tried in shackles for harboring a magic user, for allowing a sorcerer to enter Uther’s court and practice his forbidden art right under the King’s nose. Gaius’ quarters were ransacked, his property confiscated, and upon the same pyre that fell all of the old physician’s worldly possessions – rare books and carefully collected medicines and precious keepsakes – the man was lashed to a stake and burned in the central courtyard for all of Camelot to witness. Merlin had seen the column of smoke rising from the castle while hiding in the nearby forest, and he’d been drawn back to the city at nightfall by the broken pain in his breastbone and the numb fear of what he might discover there. It was fitting that a sudden storm had blanketed the castle and surrounding township that night, releasing a deluge that turned the streets to muddy rivers and washed away every bit of soot that still stained the flagstone courtyard.

History books would not remember Gaius’ death precipitating the greatest war Albion had ever seen. That blame rested entirely on the shoulders of an inexperienced sorcerer and the Prince whom he’d lied to a hundred times over. While rain had sheeted with ferocious grief against Camelot’s glass windows Merlin had snuck into Arthur’s chambers, soaking wet and his heart in shreds, hoping to find solace with the man he’d come to consider a friend. A man who had looked upon Merlin with such cold hate that Merlin had known immediately that as deeply as he’d loved Arthur and been loyal to him, the exposure of the truth had destroyed them in a way he could not have foreseen. Arthur’s fury over the betrayal of his trust in Merlin, twisted by the falsehoods Merlin had repeatedly told without understanding how much they were damning his own secret, had brought a change in him like a sudden glacial wind, ruthless and utterly changing. And therein lay Merlin’s greatest guilt – that throughout his blind fumbling and gross deceptions, he’d naively thought that Arthur could grow up with Uther as a father and be poisoned by Merlin’s lies and not come to hate magic.

Arthur had drawn a sword on him that night, his rage and his pain so clear on his face that Merlin had stood dumbly by, too horrified by the change and numb with shock, not even flinching as the sword arced through the air. He still bore the scar of that encounter, a long thin line that traveled from his shoulder down his arm, not a killing blow but perhaps only so because Arthur had been too blind with fury to aim clearly for his head. Merlin hadn’t stuck around to find out and he’d disappeared as quickly as possible into the night, bleeding and cold and sick with the knowledge that’d lost his purpose, his friends, and nearly everything he cared for in the world.

Merlin tossed fitfully in his bed before finding a more comfortable position on his side, releasing a long sigh as his pillow plumped itself under his cheek before settling once more. His memories of that time were a dark reminder of when he’d been inexperienced enough to dismiss the consequences of his actions, when he’d been ignorant enough to think that he was saving a kingdom each time he nodded and held his tongue when magic was declared to be the cause of all evil. He’d thought he was saving Arthur by preventing him from killing his father in righteous anger, by swearing on his life that Arthur had been wrong to trust magic and question his father’s word. Whatever tolerance and faint hope of battling prejudices Arthur had fostered before his arrival had been swept away by Merlin’s own actions, stamped down and snuffed out by his silences and the trust he’d abused each time he’d shied away from the truth. And in just two years at Arthur’s side, Merlin had successfully cemented the seeds of hate and suspicion that Arthur’s father had failed to do for all of the twenty years prior.

It was the bitterest regret of his life, and the guilt that had gnawed away at him since the beginning of the war had eventually transformed into an all-consuming remorse, a hollow ache that grew larger the more he saw the world around him suffer for his actions. With every battle fought, every life lost, every village razed for attempting to protect one of its own, every solider that fell and every suspect child that was ripped from its mother’s skirts, Merlin knew that he had failed in his destiny. And perhaps the shame had made him desperate, had given him a reason to look beyond conventional spells or battle tactics. Somewhere along the way Merlin had realized that the fault was his to correct and that the world would be broken if he did not act to change it.

What began as the Pendragon’s Second Purge had turned into war between Camelot and the supporters of the Old Religion nearly a month after Merlin’s escape, events he was only aware of thanks to the words of those that had watched it unfold. Somehow, despite blood loss and no sense of direction, he’d managed to stumble into one of the Druid camps, half-dead and ill with grief a few days after fleeing the castle. There he’d spent feverish nights battling his own demons, crying out and asking to be left to die, begging for the oblivion that would be more merciful than living with the memories of Gaius burning and of Arthur striking him down in cold hate. His all-consuming depression had made his road to recovery that much longer and more difficult, and he’d been left bed-ridden and helpless for several weeks as the Druids were forced to pick up and move camp multiple times after his arrival. That he was not turned out and left to die in the forest was a miracle in itself, he’d come to realize in retrospect, though he’d heard stories that his magic had been unbridled and wild during his delirium, powerful enough that perhaps the Druids had realized they it was no ordinary man they were nursing back to health. They had tended to him tirelessly and patiently, and when Merlin had finally begun to surface from the haze of his depression he’d looked around himself and found the world a changed and terrible place.

Sometime between his departure from Camelot and recovering from his wounds the armies of Uther Pendragon, led by Prince Arthur, had mobilized once more, marching on villages and through forest encampments, searching ruthlessly for anyone suspicious of having ties to the Old Ways or harboring sympathies for sorcerers and witches. It was one of the worst kept secrets that the Druids had established scattered camps in the forests of Ascetir and Merlin’s earliest memories of those days were of the gut-churning fear and sense of urgency felt by all as they were forced to move abruptly and frequently and flee farther into the forest, dodging the persistent hunting parties of soldiers bent on finding their whereabouts. There had been more narrow escapes than Merlin could hope to remember and the Druids had relied more on their intimate knowledge of the forest and their ability to disappear within it rather than turning their magic on the soldiers to defend themselves. It had been nearly two decades since Uther’s last purge and no one had wanted to believe that this was a repeat of the most terrible period in their history, that another massacre could be happening so soon after thousands of lives had already been lost. But the confrontations had grown more frequent, more dangerous, and when Merlin was well enough to lend his aid he had done what he could, caught up in the same panic and confusion that kept them on the run and awake through numerous restless nights. His instinctual magic was nothing like what the Druids were familiar with, and rather than turning to fight Merlin had employed his abilities to breaking down and reassembling the camp in mere seconds, to creating fog banks that obscured their trail and distracted their pursuers, and locating safe shelters for the refugees as they were chased across the mountainsides. He had been a mysterious power in their midst that had quickly earned him respect and maybe even a little awe, looked to for guidance and yet clearly not one of their own. Those who knew he came from Camelot had given him a wide berth, and those that didn’t seemed to wonder why he did not use his magic to fight, to decide the battle and end their terror.

Merlin hadn’t sought to be a leader of any sort during that time, too depressed to do little more than give his magic free reign to help speed their escapes, too shaken by his memories of the events that had forced him to leave Camelot in the first place to be of more use. He’d shied away from any efforts they made to beseech his help to a greater degree, and several times he’d even contemplated abandoning the camp to give their pursuers a more interesting trail to follow without risking the lives of the peaceful Druids. But quite abruptly everything had changed, and in the span of a few days they’d gone from being a group on the run to being part of an organized army sworn to stand in opposition against King Uther and Prince Arthur’s plans for genocide. They’d been running for weeks when the messenger had come, a Druid under the cover of darkness covered in tribal tattoos that mapped his loyalty for all to see. He’d told them of the atrocities being wrought across the kingdom, how the number of dead were rising rapidly, how those who used magic, those who were suspected, and those who only wanted to protect their loved ones were being murdered. He told them of a meeting place and of a leader that was urging every camp, every tribe and every magic user to come to his side and aid him in battle.

They’d gone of course, though Merlin had tagged along more for lack of anywhere else to go. He was magic, as they all were, but his loyalties belonged with the man who wanted him dead, and that conflict had given him a stronger sense of personal guilt for each death than anyone else. To be asked to pledge to fight against Arthur, to stand opposite from him on the field of battle, to aid in plotting the downfall of Camelot and its armies felt like too much of a betrayal; he’d gone along but sworn in his heart that he would do all in his power to help Arthur see reason. He couldn’t easily discard thinking of Arthur as a good man, as a prince he would have been happy to stand beside and protect until his death. He was as much as fault for the current events as Arthur, as much at fault as Uther and Nimueh had been for the First Purge and their web of misunderstandings and lies. The hate Uther felt toward magic users seemed not so misguided after seeing Arthur similarly turned, and Merlin suffered to think that he’d been responsible for pushing Arthur over the edge, for transforming a man that would have been a good and just king into a bloodthirsty general that zealously marched the armies of Uther Pendragon across Albion in the hopes of wiping out all traces of magic.

To Merlin’s surprise it had been none other than Mordred calling them together to fight, a young man full of hatred for the Pendragon line and with eyes like living ice, standing taller than Merlin remembered him. He had been deadly and charismatic, with a quiet fury that was enough to buoy the hopes of those who had come to him seeking answers and guidance, and his army had grown by the day to a size that could stand as an ample presence against Camelot’s forces. But seeing the Druid boy had not been Merlin’s most memorable moment of the reunion, because standing alongside him was Morgana, wearing leather and chainmail and armed with a sword, her hair cropped short and her eyes glassed with so much empty hate that Merlin had feared to ever know what had transpired between her and Uther once his secret was discovered.

With every group of refugees that joined their camp, with every straggler that managed to avoid capture, every broken family that narrowly escaped the burning of their village, Merlin watched the bright future of Camelot crumble before his eyes. He’d been swiftly drafted into service once his identity as Emrys was revealed to all of the Druids. He was too powerful to be allowed to roam free and too haunted by his mistakes to walk away from those that needed his protection against a war he’d been responsible for starting. Merlin could remember every camp they were sent to save, could recall how their small incursions against Camelot’s forces had turned larger and more deadly, how sticks and spears had proven futile weapons against the shields of Camelot’s knights, and how Mordred and his elite guard had thrown their power with total abandon, flinging away bodies like paper caught in the wind. And Merlin remembered when the combined gazes of Uther and Arthur had turned upon them, and how war was well and truly declared between Camelot and the defenders of the Old Religion.

Now three years later it sometimes felt like a lifetime had passed since that day Gaius had been taken away and sentenced to death for loving a boy whom he’d believed was destined to save Albion. In a few short years Merlin’s life had completely changed, and he struggled sometimes to remember any existence before the bloodshed and the battlefields, to recall the simple innocence living as a milk maid’s son and knowing nothing of the evils of magic or how easily two sides could be split down the middle. What lay between then and now was nothing but a road filled with mistakes and lies, and Merlin was a man that had come to learn the true meaning of regret and what it meant to carry the weight of a country, of a future on his shoulders. Every miscalculation, everything that had brought them to this point was wrong in a way that Merlin felt deeply in his bones, felt with every spell he cast and every breath he took of this world’s anguished air. Somewhere along the way the wheel of Fate had been wrenched off course and Merlin was desperate enough to try and fix it, no matter the cost.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're finally getting to the good stuff. [](http://www.livejournal.com/users/dria_uesugi/profile)[**dria_uesugi**](http://www.livejournal.com/users/dria_uesugi/) did an amazing job and any remaining mistakes are entirely my own.

The loud explosion that awoke him the next morning jolted Merlin upright in a panic. Disoriented and ears ringing, he struggled to free himself from the blankets that had twisted around him during the night. He managed to stumble out of bed and his feet found purchase on the floor, heart racing and leg muscles rubbery with adrenaline. The air was electrified with volatile magic and it crackled uncomfortably across his skin, the sensation all too familiar from the bombardment the church had been enduring the past few months. He reached out with his senses and discovered that his outermost ward was not only gone but entirely destroyed, and the echo of its demise lifted the hairs on his arms and head.

“By the gods, they don’t give up!” he exclaimed angrily.

It took Merlin a moment to realize that there were several items floating around him demanding attention. His coat and breeches were weaving erratically through the air and at his feet his boots were hopping with agitation, raising small clouds of dust where the soles stomped on the flooring. He shook his head and pressed both palms over his ears, attempting to dispel the lingering noise that was drowning out everything else. Across the room he could see Archimedes flapping frantically on his perch, beak opening and closing in muted screeches of distress.

Merlin withdrew one hand and tried to wave his friend into silence with a worried frown. “I’m sorry, Archimedes, I can’t hear a word right now. Give me a moment and I’ll-”

Merlin was cut off as another distant explosion rocked him on his feet. It slammed into his chest with a solid pressure of air and magic that reverberated through the church with enough force to rattle the furniture and walls alike. His attention still half occupied by the state of his defenses, it hit him like an abrupt splash of icy water as he felt another ward shatter, the barrier breached with a force unlike anything that had attacked them before. Either Mordred had come personally to take action, or every Druid sorcerer now stood outside the church and had combined their powers to break through the last of his protections. Merlin dropped his hands and snatched each item of clothing out of mid-air to move with all due haste to dress. At the rate they were going he had only minutes until they reached the church’s outer walls, and stone and mortar were obstacles of no consequence to a well-trained sorcerer.

Clothed in record time, Merlin darted over to grab his satchel off the floor and slipped the long strap over his head. “Come on, Archimedes!” he shouted. The door to the room flew open at his approach and he took off sprinting down the hallway. Archimedes shot past him in a few short wing strokes and landed atop one of the corridor’s empty iron sconces across from the door to the great hall. An ominous rumbling had begun underfoot since the last explosion and Merlin could feel the corners of his last remaining ward slipping away as the attacks continued.

He paused before the pair of wooden doors and placed both hands on the surface. His heart was pounding rapidly as anxiety and adrenaline vied for dominance, and his arms shook as he pushed his magic into the layers of complex spells covering the entry. “ _Onlúcan be min néadhæs_ ,” he spoke as the power left his fingertips, and the protections melted away to let him open the door and step through.

“ _Wielmfýr_!” Merlin invoked immediately upon entering the room. Fire, hot and condensed formed in his right hand, and he threw the burning orb at the row of work tables set up against one wall of the hall. The scattered remnants of his research, tools and ink pots and scraps of notes and crystal shards went up in a wave of flames that quickly engulfed every surface. Archimedes flew into the room and landed with a cry and a gusty flap of his wings atop the free-standing archway in its center, his sharp whistle piercing through the hum in Merlin’s ears.

Merlin moved to jump onto the platform as another burst of explosive energy hit the walls surrounding the great hall. He halted atop the dais as he heard the foreboding crack of mortar and stone, and looked up in time to see a section of the roof crumble and begin to fall. His right hand shot up, magic pooling in his palm, and the air shimmered before the falling debris struck the barrier he’d hastily erected. Dust and rock and crumbled stone rained down and slid off the edges of the shield, the surface crackling with bursts of energy in red and orange. Larger pieces of the roof ricocheted off and crashed onto the floor, some landing atop the burning tables and becoming engulfed by the flames.

Loose dust and stone chips continued to fall from the demolished roof as Merlin was once more rocked off his feet, this time from an explosion immediately to his right. He fell to one knee, hand still outstretched to maintain the barrier as the entire wall exploded inward, hurtling massive blocks of stone into the hall. Merlin cringed and shook his head against the deafening sound, attempting to dispel the compounded ringing in his ears. The air outside the barrier’s dome was thick with dust from the explosion and smoke from the fire, and Merlin had to squint through the haze as he got slowly to his feet. Archimedes, who had remained atop the arch within the shield, began screeching with enough ferocity that even Merlin could hear the alarmed sound over the din.

Through the shimmering gloom, turned gold by the shafts of morning sunlight breaking through the demolished roof, Merlin could just make out the obscure shapes of people stepping into the hall through the blasted wall. In short order the air began to clear rapidly, as if being siphoned out of the room through a pair of invisible bellows. Merlin blinked in surprise and straightened his shoulders as the fading dust revealed the identities of his visitors.

There were five in all. Four Druid sorcerers stood in a line with Morgana at the front, gold chainmail on her chest and an empty scabbard attached to her belt. Their hoods were thrown back and though the general look about them was a frown or expression of stony anger, Merlin saw that save for Morgana their faces were flushed and perspiring from the tedium of breaking past his barriers to get into the church. It was satisfying to see he’d given them trouble for their effort, even if it appeared that he’d been mistaken to assume it would take nothing less than a small army to break through. They were an unusually powerful group, more than Merlin had suspected any of the sorcerers capable of achieving. He couldn’t help wondering what they’d done to break his wards so quickly, and whether he would be forced to face that power directly. He was more than confident in his abilities but with Morgana present the outcome had the possibility of being drastically different than his expectations. He didn’t hesitate to draw on more magic to further reinforce the barrier between them.

“Merlin!” Morgana screeched furiously, her voice catching and breaking off what remained of the high walls. Merlin watched her step away from the group, her eyes blazing. She sounded bitterly reproachful, as if he’d been caught misbehaving like a child.

“Morgana, so good of you to visit,” Merlin greeted blandly. The hollow ringing in his head made the words echo as if from a great distance, and the heavy beat of his blood in his ears made the sounds even more muffled. But his hearing seemed to be slowly returning, a sign he was grateful for considering how badly the rest of the morning had gone so far.

Morgana seemed to hardly hear his sarcasm as she continued on. “You should have listened! You have made this _much_ harder than it needed to be. Don’t you realize what you could have done!?”

Merlin frowned and jammed a finger in his right ear, wiggling it to relieve some of the lingering buzz. “I’m fairly certain I’m saving Albion. It’s unconventional, I give you that, but it’s more than I can say for yourself and Mordred. You’ve wanted nothing more than to destroy it since the war started. Of course I wasn’t going to listen to you.”

Morgana’s face abruptly lost its malice, the lines of fury replaced by the soft look of surprise and despair. She raised her gloved hands, reaching them out in supplication. “Oh, Merlin,” she pleaded, “how could you have misunderstood us so terribly? We’ve done nothing but protect our people; you were there, you know this. That has not changed, not once. We’ve suffered so much without you. How could you leave us so helpless? Do you really think us so evil?”

Merlin stepped back to put himself closer to the arch, a frisson of guilt and wariness tingling across his nerves. “I’ve only been trying to correct the wrongs, Morgana, to put everything back to right. The way it should have been.”

“As are we,” Morgana insisted, coming to a stop near the base of the dais, the tips of her boots mere inches from the barrier. Her eyes were large and green, luminous in the sunlight and full of hurt and hope. “Please come with us. See what we’ve done. We’re so close to our dreams, to the bright future I have seen in my visions. There is peace, Merlin. True peace. Magic will return to Albion and we will guide it in the Old Ways again. The tyranny of the Pendragons will haunt us no more. You must come with us, see what I have Seen. You can’t possibly understand the true beauty of the future. We are destined to lead it, all of us. Come with me.”

“At what cost, Morgana?” Merlin asked. His attention settled briefly on the silent Druids standing behind her, the tickle of apprehension in him growing stronger by the moment. Morgana only played games for sympathy, and he knew that with each passing moment the sorcerers were regaining their strength. “Your designs for peace are nothing but a smoke screen for the absolute rule you would impose upon Albion. I’ve heard enough of your plans to know that you and Mordred would wipe out every trace of Camelot to fit your ends. That is not peace – that’s despotism.”

“Camelot deserves nothing less than to be burned to the ground!” Morgana seethed in sudden anger. “What has it given us but a tyrant king and his murdering son? Its hate and poison is killing this land. It is turning our rivers to blood and our forests into graveyards. You’ve suffered at its hands more than anyone else – why do you defend it?”

Merlin’s left hand twitched behind his back and he clenched it into a fist. Pins and needles bloomed under his fingernails, the touch of magic raising the hairs on his knuckles. “Because it still represents hope. That neither side will rule absolute over the other. This country would be stronger if magic and Camelot ruled together.”

“Nothing but delusion,” Morgana scoffed derisively. She laughed wickedly, the sound harsh and brittle, head tilted back and hair tumbling over her shoulders. “You have been locked away too long, Merlin. The world has changed while you toiled away on a fool’s errand. Your plans will change nothing. Everything I have foreseen has come to pass. I warned you – I warned you that this road would only end in darkness. If you step through that thing you will destroy all of us!”

“You don’t know that for certain,” Merlin snapped back. Morgana’s sudden mood changes were putting him increasingly on edge, and he knew that the longer he succumbed to her goading the more of a challenge it would be to thwart the row of silent sorcerers. “It’s over, Morgana. I won’t be swayed by your warnings or your lies. Maybe you’re right, maybe this present will end, but I won’t let you stop me. This is the only way to end the war.” Merlin lifted the hand he’d secreted behind his back, fingertips glowing with a brightening blue light that began to crackle as his hand neared the stone. Morgana’s eyes widened and then narrowed in anger. Spots of color suffused her cheeks and a sudden gust of wind sent the loose stone chips skittering around the room.

“Stop!!” she screamed.

Merlin did, his hand inches away from touching the arch. Small filaments of energy arched between his fingers and the stone, snapping loudly in the silence. He looked at her and sighed aloud, apologetically. “This won’t change anything, Morgana. By the time you break through that barrier I will have already finished the incantation. I am truly sorry, but this must be done.”

Morgana’s face crumpled with sudden anguish and both her hands lifted to grip the hair on either side of her head. “How can you condemn us to this? You were my friend, my dearest friend. I have bargained for your life, Merlin. Only I have kept Mordred from completely destroying this place. He is distracted, even now. He is on the battlefield fighting for our future. He knows nothing of this. Mordred will spare your life! He only wishes you to return in goodwill, to help us once more. You would be venerated, a wizard of the highest order, he will defer to your council, he will listen to you! I swear this! He is but a child and he needs your guidance, Merlin, only yours. You are the only one who can stand beside him, I have Seen this!”

Merlin frowned as he watched the play of emotions Morgana’s face. Her distress was real but the false tears swimming in her eyes were more than enough warning to keep his distance. Her gaze was fixated on his extended hand, misery and anger and a wildness there that disturbed his deeper instincts. Merlin was almost completely certain that she was lying for her own ends, but her entreaty had been vehement enough to pique his curiosity. Why the necessity for him to join them, rather than simply eliminate him from the picture? He’d as good as declared himself an enemy the day he left their ranks, and yet he’d been allowed to conduct his research unhindered. Could it simply be a ploy to steal his arch and its ability to open a portal through Time? They had to know that he would rather die first before revealing its secret, so why the plea for his help, as if his decision to come willingly made all the difference?

“You need me,” he realized quite abruptly. “I must have been so blind not to see it before! But it makes sense – you’ve always needed me, my allegiance and my full cooperation. You need it so desperately that you can’t win the war without me. That’s why no matter what I did, no matter how much I disobeyed, neither of you struck out at me. You saw something in your visions, a future that you wanted to happen, and you knew that you needed me alive or it would never come to pass.”

Merlin laughed aloud, in surprise as much as with a sudden understanding as so many events over the past three years began to fall into place. “I was the one you needed the most, but the one thing you couldn’t control. How much that must have galled you!”

Morgana stumbled back like she’d been backhanded, and her face shifted rapidly from pleading to infuriated. “Foolish, impudent man! We’ll win this, with or without you!” she spat. She spun on her heel to face the group of sorcerers waiting behind her. “Take that barrier down, _now_!”

The four Druids stepped forward over the rubble and lifted their hands. They began chanting under their breath, a low hum of words that were indistinguishable but hinted at a slow building power, a spell not meant to break by force but bury deep and work from within. Merlin watched in surprise as the outer shell of his barrier began to bubble and warp, like the surface of a pond disturbed by heavy rain beating on its surface. In a few moments the rising distortions stretched and pulled away from the shield, creating thin wisps that snaked through the air directly toward each of the men’s open hands. The four wavering ropes grew thicker and more luminescent, and Merlin felt the change as they began to siphon away the magic he’d fused into the barrier. It was an entirely unexpected method of attack, insidious and deplorably underhanded, and no less surprising for the fact that Merlin had never witnessed it before. His shock and dismay left him gaping and Morgana laughed cruelly.

“We’ve come a long way without you, oh great and powerful Emrys! We tried the common methods against your wards, but continuing to use brute force would have been foolish and time consuming. So we simply… became more creative. These Druids have been trained by me, and they will devour your pathetic shield until it shatters like they did to the rest of your barriers. You see now how futile it is, don’t you? Before you’ve even spoken half of your spell their bindings will trap you and feed on your magic and you will be no more fearsome than a helpless cub. Perhaps, once in awhile, we will let you taste your old powers again, when Lord Mordred is feeling generous. You will sit and his feet and beg for your magic like a common dog!”

Merlin quickly concluded that he had two options: reinforce his barrier and attempt to stall the sorcerers from draining it entirely, or throw everything on the hope that he could establish a portal through the arch before they broke through. Both choices had a chance for failure – being captured by the Druids and sapped of his magic at their mercy, or finding himself at the wrong point in time and all of his work gone for nothing. He could feel the almost physical tug of the other sorcerers’ power as they dismantled the bindings of his shield, as if his magic couldn’t help but be drawn into their hands. A shudder went through him at the abhorrent sensation, a cold chill at the thought of being captured and held against his will under that merciless vise.

Merlin clenched his left hand, causing a small shower of blue sparks to squeeze through the joints. However far away he could manage to get, it would be infinitely better than here. And if he was forced to start over, to build his arch again, then at least he knew enough now to do it in half the time.

“I’m sorry,” Merlin murmured, focusing his gaze on Morgana. She wore a savage grin on her face and the feverish gleam, the touch of madness in her eyes was undeniable. Morgana’s lust for power, her desire for revenge against Uther had warped her beyond recognition. Merlin swallowed through the familiar lump of regret. “I’m sorry I didn’t try harder to save you.”

As he applied his focus on building the energy in his fist the light pouring from his hand increased dramatically, crackling and expanding to encompass the space above his wrist. It grew so bright that Merlin had to squint and look away from the dazzling sparks, and it took him a moment to register the feeling of two sets of claws digging into his right shoulder. He looked over to see that Archimedes had left the top of the arch to settle beside him, and his initial frown turned apologetic as the owl flapped his wings nervously. “I’m so sorry, old friend. I didn’t intend to get you into this mess, not like this. You have to find a way to get to safety once this shield comes down. You can’t come with me.”

Archimedes’ reply was to his talons in deeper, making Merlin wince. “Ow! I know how you feel, but it’s not safe! You’ve never liked it very much, so I don’t see why you’re keen on going through now.”

“Talking to yourself again, Merlin?” Morgana called out mockingly as she paced just behind the four Druids. “It’s the first sign of madness, they say. Talking to dumb creatures as though they can understand you. How I wish your dear Arthur could see you now, trapped and trying to prevent him from burning every last one of our bones into ashes. Why are you trying to stop him from doing what makes him happy? He’s only following in his father’s footsteps, like a good son should. We are like siblings, he and I, and I would never deny him that which brings him so much pleasure. And he desires nothing more than to crush the bones of your neck between his hands.”

“Not the Arthur I know,” Merlin denied, struggling to maintain his focus despite Morgana’s attempts to distract him. “I’m as much as fault as Uther for his wrongdoings. He doesn’t know what I’ve done, what mistakes I’ve made. This is the only way to correct that.”

Morgana threw her head back and cackled, and it was a shrill sound that raced chills down Merlin’s back. “Even now you defend him! The murdering swine still has his faithful dog until the end. And you will join with him, I promise you that. I have Seen the future, and I know of your deceit, what protection you tried to give to him.” Morgana laid a hand upon the scabbard at her side and ran her fingers in a caress down the length of the sheath. Through the crack and sparks of his dying shield Merlin realized, too late, that he recognized the twisting runes that ran over the hardened leather.

“You stole Excalibur?” Merlin demanded angrily. He took an aborted step away from the arch, but jerked to a halt as Morgana laughed again.

“Stole? Oh no, I merely deprived it of the only thing that has prevented us from fulfilling our goals. I have leveled the playing field that you deliberately attempted to sway in their favor. I saw through your lies, you traitorous fool. Did you think it would help him? Make him ‘see sanity and reason’ again?” she asked mockingly, throwing the words he’d spoken that day back with alarming accuracy. “If he knew the truth he would have thrown your precious gift into the forge rather than taint his blackened hands with magic. I have _liberated_ him! And today, today he will truly know freedom. Mordred’s army will cut a path straight through Camelot to Arthur, and without your sentimental protections he will fall. This day Albion will taste the blood of a Pendragon! The fallen will have their vengeance!”

“No,” Merlin whispered roughly, his knees weakening as disbelief and shock consumed him. In one decisive move Morgana had destroyed the last hope he had always secretly kept, that at least in some small way he was keeping Arthur safe from Mordred’s vengeance. Without Excalibur’s sheath Arthur would surely perish and thanks to her powers Morgana had known of this as certainly as Merlin had always feared. There would be no safeguard for the Prince if Mordred came within striking distance, and the reason behind the Druid army’s sudden march on Camelot was clear given the advantage their leader knew he had. They had planned for it all along, had left Merlin to hide away in his fortress as they plotted Arthur’s downfall, and he had allowed it to happen simply by following his obsession with altering history.

The swell of grief filling him was staggering in its intensity, and he found himself blinking against the sting of the blazing light in his hand and the sudden tears that wanted to spring free. The light in his hand began to dim as he felt his concentration wavering under the turbulence of his emotions.

Arthur would be dead soon, if he wasn’t already, and it was entirely his fault. The pain of this knowledge was fierce and crushing, and the pang of loss rolled through Merlin on a wave of grief and self-loathing. Even exiled from Arthur’s side he’d been unable to help the compulsion to protect him, to shield him from those who would wish him harm, and like so many other things he had failed in that as well. For all the mistakes he had tried to make amends for and all the lives he had been unable to save, making certain that Arthur was safe had been the easiest choice to make. But it hadn’t been enough to stop his worst enemies from finding that one weakness, and the fault was Merlin’s for believing that he could protect Arthur even when he wasn’t at his side.

Merlin shut his eyes against the whirlwind of magic and energy and the foreboding cracks of his faltering shield, mourning silently for the loss of Albion’s future, for its brightest beacon and the friend that had meant more to him than words could convey. The world would not be losing a cold-blooded warrior or a general who had murdered of thousands of his own citizens; they were losing a noble knight with a heart of gold, a Prince who valued the life of the common man, and who, for a time, had wanted to believe that magic was not something to be feared. The Druids would refuse to remember Arthur as such a person but Merlin had known the man within, had seen through to the future king that lay beneath the prat exterior, and his heart grieved for what he had lost three years ago as much as what the country would lose today on the battlefield.

And a world without Arthur, no matter how peaceful they would claim it to be, was not one he wished to live in.

Merlin snapped his eyes open, their edges shimmering with tears of gold, and thrust his right hand toward the row of sorcerers. “ _Líese_!” he shouted.

The sudden shattering of his shield caused an outward explosion that knocked all of the Druids, including Morgana, back into the rubble with a crash and crack of impacting bone and flesh. Tall clouds of dust billowed into the air where all five of them lay, momentarily stunned and motionless. It took a moment before two of them began to struggle and scramble back onto their feet, a third slowly rising with much greater effort, while the last lay motionless and bent oddly over the stone block they’d fallen upon.

Merlin spared no time to think on or regret that he’d so carelessly taken another life and gathered the dissipating magic of his shield into his empty hand. It too began to glow blue with energy and rapidly brightened, hissing and crackling with power. Merlin saw Morgana emerge from the rubble and their eyes met briefly through the dusty gloom. The hairs on the back of his neck lifted at the look of remorseless fury on her face, and without hesitating Merlin stepped toward the arch and slapped a palm against each of the stone pillars. The magic in his hands flowed into the arch and hundreds of tiny crystal shards embedded into the carved runes lit up with power, brighter than they’d ever glowed before, glittering like stars in the night sky.

“Stop him!” he heard Morgana shout. “Before he speaks!”

The light in outermost crystals winked out and moved swiftly inward, the light growing in brightness and condensing toward the center, and as the last of it disappeared from the columns a bright flash transformed the space between the pillars into a shimmering portal. Through the distorted swirl of color dancing across the surface Merlin could just make out the last standing wall on the opposite side of the great hall, the floor free of the rubble that he knew should have been beyond.

“Sorry, Morgana!” Merlin shouted as he gathered his satchel close. “I lied too!”

Archimedes flapped bracingly on his shoulder and settled his claws more firmly in the fabric as Merlin jumped toward the arch without speaking a word. Above the crackle of noise in his ears as the magic enveloped him, the sound of Morgana’s screams followed him through the portal.

Merlin emerged breathless on the other side, stumbling and gasping for air. His teeth were chattering and he shivered uncontrollably, his skin burning as though every exposed bit were being pierced by icy needles. He staggered forward into a patch of sunlight and shuddered as the pain began to dissipate almost as rapidly as it had come, leaving him light headed for a moment, stomach wrenching at the sudden sense of displacement. When he could bear to lift his head and take in his surroundings he saw the great hall looking remarkably intact and whole, and behind him the stone dais and portal were gone, along with his workbenches and any traces of his presence in the nave.

Archimedes shook himself off Merlin’s shoulder with an unhappy screech and took off flying, leaving through one of the narrow holes in the roof of the building. Merlin observed his departure before he moved over to one of the missing sections in the western wall. The squeeze to get outside was a bit tighter than he’d anticipated, but he emerged outside after a moment, blinking against the warm sunlight. Archimedes was wheeling overhead on a thermal and he watched the owl for a moment before taking in the familiar view of the hilltop ruin.

The panorama was ripe with green hillocks and a few paler fields of grass, the narrow silver stripe of a tributary meandering in the distance before it disappeared behind a dark forest that stretched across several hills and beyond. The afternoon sky was sparsely clouded but the air was warm and sticky, rich with the smell of sun baked earth and the sounds of birds and insects. A dawning look of wonder spread across Merlin’s face and he lifted a hand to shield against the summer sun, Archimedes coasting through the gaps between his fingers. “By the gods it worked,” he said softly, blinking through the sting of sunlight in his eyes, the tear tracks on his cheeks evaporating in the heat. They’d made it to the past.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Glossary**
> 
> _Onlúcan be min néadhæs_ \- Unlock/open by my command
> 
>  _Wielmfýr_ \- a blazing fire
> 
>  _Líese_ – to loosen/release/liberate


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [](http://www.livejournal.com/users/dria_uesugi/profile)[ **dria_uesugi**](http://www.livejournal.com/users/dria_uesugi/) rode in like a knight in shining armor to make this even better, thanks hun ♥

Merlin remained at the church long enough for the sun to move another hand’s width across the sky, time he spent completing a thorough search of the ruins and the empty rooms that tickled his memories of their state before he’d taken up residence. The earth magic below the church was quiescent and undisturbed, save for what his arrival had briefly rippled across the leylines, but there was no evidence that anyone else had crossed into this place from somewhere outside that point in time. It may have been overly paranoid of him to suspect that he might be followed, but Merlin preferred to err on the side of caution; it took him an hour to lay runes at six equally distanced points around the great hall, a web-work of crisscrossing lines that intersected around the place where he’d stepped out of the portal from the future. He made sure to press them deeply into the stonework of the floor, etched low enough that even if the foundations crumbled the runes would still hold their shape. If anything remotely magical occurred in this place at any point during the next ten spans of his lifetime the wards would snap shut like a hunter’s snare, binding them until the magic dissipated or the intruder broke free. Whatever the future held in store from here on out, unwelcome visitors would be the least of his concerns.

With the trap in place and nothing left to tie him to the deteriorating building Merlin set out on foot down the hillside, Archimedes dozing on his shoulder while he walked in a roughly southeasterly direction. It was a three day journey on horseback to Camelot from where the abandoned church was located, a distance that could easily be made three times as long if he failed to find a town or village along the way. He hoped to come across one at least by nightfall; in addition to food and transportation a settlement could provide him with the information he needed to get his bearings, and not knowing how far in time he’d traveled pushed his steps more briskly than was probably necessary. He’d been denied the luxury of estimating how much magic he’d funneled into the arch in his hasty flight from Morgana, and the weight of his uncertainty made him observe every landmark with a critical eye as he walked, wondering if he could guess by the shape of a field or the distance of the forest just how much time had passed since he’d last seen them. While the land seemed mostly unchanged – the river still turning where he remembered it, the trees still a dark and unbroken line to the south and west – Merlin knew these details were inconsequential at best. His hopes for traveling farther than the start of the war were only that, vain hope, and he knew he had to accept that he may have only traveled a handful of years, or worse a hundred if not more. Until he found signs of civilization he had no way of knowing for certain, and Merlin watched vigilantly for signs of smoke in the distance even as the sun began to dip behind him and sink below the western horizon.

It wasn’t until well after nightfall that he walked into the outskirts of a small settlement, made obvious only by the scent of manure and the twin lit lanterns that hung outside what may have been an inn or a meeting house. Every other structure was dark and shuttered, cooking fires long since banked for the night, and Merlin didn’t imagine that he’d receive a warm welcome if he knocked on a door to ask for the current date and a bit of food. Putting aside his disappointment, he steered clear of the main road and anyone who might overhear his footsteps on the dirt packed lane, searching for the less inhabited outskirts of the village. Using the cover of darkness he acquired a set of tack and a blanket from an untended barn on the edge of town, gathered a few apples from the local grove, filled his water skin from a rain barrel, and used his magic to coax a chestnut mare to jump the wall of her paddock and follow him a short distance into the woods that bordered the plowed fields. Saddling a horse was nearly second nature to him, and Merlin was grateful for the years of practice he’d developed as he mounted the mare in the dark and took off riding at an easy gallop, Archimedes screeching overhead as he flew above the trees.

He stopped to make camp a few miles away from the town with dawn still some hours away and the night air warm with the memory of the summer sun, the heat such a stark contrast to the weather Merlin had left behind that he felt disoriented at times from the strangeness of it. He built himself a small fire and ignited the branches with a soft _bærne_ , eating one of his pilfered apples while he watched the flames and prodded at the hollow pain of loss in his breastbone that he could no longer use the light of day to ignore. He was alone with the more painful memories of his confrontation with Morgana until Archimedes made his appearance later, silent on the wind and dropping the carcass of a rabbit on the ground next to Merlin’s leg. Merlin cooked the hare and ate his food in silence, occasionally throwing scraps of meat to the owl, and when the fire began to dim he made a bed on a soft patch of moss with the stolen blanket pulled up to his chest. The night sounds of the forest muffled the quiet tears that shook him at first, but they could not mask the racking sobs that rose and left him curled inward and achingly short of breath. And if a name fell repeatedly from his lips in between his gasps for air, his only witnesses were an owl and a horse that were not the kind to give up such secrets so easily.

In the morning Merlin woke to aching muscles and a raw throat, but he’d slept soundly through the night and the absence of nightmarish dreaming was a reprieve all on its own. He erased all traces of the fire pit, fed the mare two of the apples he’d gathered, and set off to find the nearest body of running water. He located a shallow ravine with a swift moving brook at the bottom about a half-hour’s ride away, and with no other sign of human habitation in sight he gratefully shed his clothes and left them and the horse on the bank. The stream was clear and cool but only waist deep in the middle, and Merlin let the current catch and carry him while he floated on his back, pale arms akimbo as he basked in the sun and the caress of the water. He could feel the dirt and sweat and grime of stone and fire washing away like a weight off his skin, and when his foot bumped against a branch wedged under the streambed he exhaled and let the force of the water push him under the surface. He lay still with his back pressed against the smooth stones while the ripples distorted the bright blue sky above him, until all he could hear was the hum of the earth through his spine and the slow beating of his heart.

The sun had climbed more than halfway toward its zenith once he’d paddled his way back upstream to where his things were strewn across the bank, his belt and boots locked in some kind of playful tussle over ownership of a buckle. Merlin waded out of the stream and sprawled out naked on the hot grass to catch his breath, the trees whispering in a warm breeze while the two items wrestled in the dirt and the mare and Archimedes shared a nap in the same patch of shade a few steps away. When he was dry and starting to pink uncomfortably Merlin gathered up his things with a cleaning spell and dressed, leaving on only in his lightest tunic and breeches, before moving to wake his two companions. They continued on toward Camelot and eventually left the forest behind, which took them through an unbroken stretch of wild meadow for several hours before they stumbled upon a road that curved promisingly to the southwest. It wasn’t long before he began to pass other travelers heading in both directions, wagons and people on foot and sometimes a single rider or groups of two or three on horseback. Despite the strange looks he often received directed toward the slumbering bird on his shoulder, he was unfailingly polite each time he was able to stop someone and ask questions about the city he was heading toward.

Unfortunately he was still so far out from the kingdom’s center that most of the people he encountered were only vaguely sure in what direction Camelot was located. Some were able to give him slightly more concrete directions for reaching the city, but fewer still were willing to discuss any details about the current ruler and what significant events surrounded their reign. It was an odd topic for people to be so closed-lipped about, but Merlin learned rather quickly that while these citizens respected their sovereign they were also extremely wary of doing more than speaking his name with a quick bow and a touch on their forehead – _His Majesty Uther Pendragon_ – (what a strange relief it was to hear that name) but soon it became more of a nuisance when that was the extent of the knowledge they offered. Merlin eventually discovered that by adopting a false accent and spinning vague stories about traveling through from the north, passersby were willing to divulge the more interesting exploits of their king. It was in this manner that he learned that Uther Pendragon had been on the throne for eighteen years and that it had been thirteen since the ban on sorcery was imposed throughout the kingdom. By his estimate, give or take a few months, he’d managed to arrive twelve years in the past.

More than a decade. Merlin almost couldn’t believe the arch had worked so well. He had years before his younger self was due to show up at Camelot, time enough to come up with a plan to stop the worst of future events from happening. What course of action he took remained to be seen, but the idea of removing Uther from power was becoming more appealing now that Merlin knew he hadn’t travelled back far enough to put a stop to Igraine’s death or prevent the events of the First Purge. Toppling a king off his throne would be no easy task, not when the stability of a country rested so heavily on the existence of a solid leader at its head, and in all honesty the last thing Merlin desired was to leave behind a broken inheritance for Arthur to take up when he became of age. But the idea of leaving Uther as king when so many individual lives could be spared was a hard thought to swallow, when innocent victims and good men like Gwen’s father would be sacrificed in Uther’s quest to wipe out magic. There had to be a way to prevent those losses without completely crippling a kingdom in the process… Merlin just didn’t know what that answer could be. There were so many small things to consider, so many ways that the future could go wrong if he didn’t think his options through; he’d known planning for an ideal outcome would be hard, but now the task seemed enormously daunting in its magnitude.

It was comforting to know for certain now that Gaius was still alive, though Merlin couldn’t say whether even approaching his old mentor would be a good idea until he knew more about Camelot’s situation in the present. And whether he could even tell him about his travel through time without sounding like a lunatic… he didn’t fancy spending time in the dungeons just because Gaius might not be willing to trust a man claiming to be the future version of a boy he’d never met. He would have to be careful and take his steps one at a time, observe before acting, establish himself in some sort of trade in Camelot that brought him closer to the castle and Gaius in turn. He could even attempt to befriend the physician again while waiting for the opportune moment, and when the time was right reveal everything and bring Gaius into his plans for the future. It sounded naively idealistic even in his own mind, though a part of Merlin ached to have his mentor in his life again, to recapture the years that had been stolen from them thanks to his own stupidity and ignorance. He didn’t intend to squander this second chance to let Gaius know just how much he’d meant to him, how much he would always be the source of Merlin’s strength and inner guidance.

The road Merlin was following took him across a variety of terrain and through several settlements that grew larger with every league he travelled closer to the heart of the kingdom. Soon villages became towns, and regular outposts manned by soldiers in familiar insignias of red and gold began to appear as the road widened, wheel rutted dirt and old paving stones laid by the Romans bypassing wide hills and cutting through natural valleys of heather and tumbled stone. Merlin had no coin or items for barter to take liberty of the accommodations the towns offered, and though he’d resorted to stealing on his first night using his magic for illegal means always made him feel prickly with guilt afterwards; instead he slept in the open off the road, often in the shelter of a nearby wood or in the lee of a natural rock formation, making use of natural springs and rivers to clean away the sweat and dirt of being on the road. After his third night sleeping outdoors Merlin knew he’d come well within reach of Camelot and would probably arrive by that day’s afternoon, a fact which halted his morning ablutions while he washed his hands in a stream close to where he’d made camp the night before.

Taking himself up the inclined bank, a few steps below where the mare grazed contentedly on a patch of clover, Merlin sat and twirled a stalk of tufted grass between his fingers while he gathered his thoughts. Before he’d even finished building his arch he’d come to the realization that whatever he hoped to set in motion in the past would have little chance of succeeding if he didn’t have a part to play, and while it would be easy to pass himself off as an unheard of noble or attempt to integrate himself into the city as a merchant of some sort, he disliked the risk that came with impersonating nobility and hated the idea of being far away from the royal court where he could do the most good. Obtaining a position as a servant within the castle would be ideal, but Merlin couldn’t help balking inwardly at the thought of voluntary servitude again; not only for the fact that he’d been horrible at it the first go around, but for whatever foolish, sentimental reason, he still thought of himself as faithful to Arthur, and taking upon the duties of another master seemed like a deliberate act of disloyalty.

It would be best if he came up with a trade, and Gaius’ teachings along with his own years of research gave him enough background to pass himself off as a physician, or failing that, to seek a scholarly profession that might give him access to Camelot’s libraries or a place within the court. Now that he knew he had only about seven years to come up with a way to stop the greatest war in Albion from happening, there was the added risk that he might be recognized when his younger counterpart showed up in Camelot. He would need a way to move freely without endangering his past self, to earn the trust of those around him, and obtain employ in a position beyond what his youthful appearance would normally gain him. It was fortunate that magic offered the perfect solution.

The incantation to change his appearance was somewhat complex and he’d practiced it with varying degrees of success (once memorably time turning himself into an old man with a long white beard), and this time he spoke the words of the spell carefully, picturing the desired changes in his mind. He could feel the effects once the last word left his lips, the scruff of his unshaven beard thickening and the hair on his head thinning and shortening, the flesh on his hands toughening and spotting with age in the dips behind his knuckles. Merlin rose from the bank with a grunt, feeling a joint or two pop at the movement. At the stream’s edge he stilled the running water with a gesture of his hand, producing a clear reflection of his appearance. He’d aged a good twenty years, beard thicker and dark down the column of his throat, the hair at his temple streaked with lines of premature gray, and there were lines around his eyes and mouth where he always gotten dimples when he smiled. His eyes were still clear and blue and his ears were still ridiculously large as ever (they’d never changed in size, no matter how many time he’d tried the spell), and on the whole he thought he’d done well. Not too old to be considered decrepit, not too young to be dismissed outright as juvenile and inexperienced. Even Gaius would have been impressed by the flawlessness of the change.

Encouraged by the success of the spell, Merlin remounted the horse and turned them toward the road that lay on the other side of the grove he’d led them into the night before. They were nearly out of the trees before Archimedes descended from above and landed on Merlin’s shoulder with a gust of wind and a sharp pinch of his talons. Merlin hissed aloud, never quite prepared for how much the owl’s claws could dig through cloth and flesh when there wasn’t much between them. He felt a nip on the outer shell of his ear, the bird’s own form of a greeting and an apology, and Merlin’s answering smile turned into an outright grin when Archimedes let loose a trill of surprise at the change in his appearance.

“You’ll have to get used to this face for awhile,” Merlin informed him, giving a light tug on the horse’s reins to steer her toward the open road in the near distance. Archimedes said nothing, but Merlin heard the telltale whistle of air that meant his friend was settling in for a good nap, one he apparently wished to take pressed up against the side of Merlin’s head.

It was early afternoon when they at last came within sight of the familiar, gleaming white turrets, and Merlin brought the mare to a stop on a rise which offered the best view of the castle and its surrounding city and farmland. The upwelling of emotion washing over him at the sight of the place he had called home for almost two years was unexpected. In the course of his life he had lived in Camelot for much less time than he’d lived out of it, and yet his memories of the city, of the people and Arthur and Gaius and Gwen and Morgana, the vivaciousness of life present on every street and in every building were some of the brightest in Merlin’s mind. His time as Arthur’s manservant had impacted his life so suddenly, so completely, that it had given him his destiny and his reason for returning for a second chance. Camelot was the center of his world, even when he’d been forced away from it and exiled from its walls. Everything he had worked for, even alongside the Druids as their ally, had been toward finding the means to one day return, and now here he was, only a few hours ride away. It was like a dream conjured from his own subconscious, though the sticky sweat running down his back confirmed the reality of it. He was finally going home.

The road continued along at a leisurely decline into the valley where Camelot was situated, wide and lined with regularly spaced blocks of smooth stones and bordered by slopes of golden grasses, with the occasional novelty of a wooden signpost pointing the way to adjacent villages. The thoroughfare took him along the outskirts of a darkened wood that shielded the castle from view once he reached the valley floor a few hours later, one side bordered by trees and thick brush, the other descending gently toward a hamlet dotted with buildings and square plots of wheat. Archimedes had maintained his favored perch for sleeping during the day, and Merlin was doing his best to not dislodge the bird and still smile at anyone passing by that gave him and the unusual companion on his shoulder bewildered second glances. He didn’t think it warranted some of the outright slack-jawed expressions he’d seen, but he did suppose it was a little odd to see an owl in broad daylight.

Still some distance outside of the city, Merlin brought the horse to a slow walk when an odd sound came from the woods to his left. The noise was vaguely animal in nature and coming closer to his position, though it was difficult to tell if it was a creature in pain or in the middle of searching for a meal. The sound grew in volume as it approached, a feral kind of grunting accompanied by the crash of brush and snapping branches. Merlin’s fingers unconsciously tightened their grip on the leather straps in his hands, wondering if he was about to come face to face with yet another horrible beast come to plague Camelot’s outlying towns. He wet his lips to prepare for a spell and prayed there would be no one nearby to bear witness to him using magic. The horse under him had come a stop and now began to back up nervously, head tossing as it too sensed that something was almost upon them.

A moment later a child came tumbling out of the forest, dirty and leaf covered and running at full sprint in the opposite direction from where Merlin and the mare had stopped. Merlin huffed aloud in relief and reached forward to comfort the mare with a pat to the neck, but she shied away from his touch and let out a whinny of fear. Only a moment later a massive boar charged out of the woods on all fours, squealing in rage and with a spear shaft still lodged in its flank. Merlin pulled hard on the horse’s bridle as the mare threatened to balk, and with a kick of his heels spurred her forward as the boar continued in pursuit of the child. The boy let out a cry and stumbled as he glanced back and realized he was still being chased, and only seconds away from being overtaken.

Merlin didn’t realize the commotion had woken his friend until Archimedes took off from his shoulder, swooping low to the ground and colliding feet first with the head of the boar. The beast squealed in pain as the owl’s talons clawed and tore at its face, and Merlin saw the young boy scramble to his feet from where he’d fallen to turn and stare at the sight. Merlin dismounted and hurried to where Archimedes and the boar were snapping and screeching at each other, ready to lend assistance if needed. It quickly became clear that the boar was worse for the battle however, already exhausted and bleeding profusely from its wounds and missing both eyes. With another guttural squeal of pain it fell onto its side, legs kicking futilely in the throes of death, blood pooling on the road and face almost mauled beyond recognition.

Archimedes remained perched victoriously on the boar’s head, picking with satisfaction at the warm flesh of its empty eye sockets, and Merlin left his companion to approach the boy who was now inching his way warily back along the road.

“It’s alright,” Merlin said, lifting his hands and waving toward the bird. “He was just protecting you, there’s no reason to be frightened.”

The boy, blond and dirt covered, drew himself up with a tilt to his chin that struck Merlin as probably false bravado. He was a little taller than Merlin had guessed on first sight, and even though his clothes were dusty and decorated with leaves and bits of twigs he was better dressed for hunting than Merlin thought any common village boy might be. Clearly the son of a wealthy merchant or a nobleman, but to be out alone during the day and hunting boar no less was unusual, especially for a child his age. Even as a grown man, Arthur had never hunted boar without at least a party of trackers and a knight or three to aid in case things got out of hand. It would have been dangerous to do otherwise.

The boy watched Merlin approach with undisguised wariness, his gaze snapping between the man and the owl behind him. He looked pale and shaken, and was wincing with the effort of brushing some of the worst debris from his clothes. Merlin didn’t miss that he was also hobbling with the effort to avoid putting pressure on left foot. “Then I thank you, sir. Your aid is to be commended. I shall have you rewarded. Upon my- ah!”

The boy was in reaching distance and Merlin sprang forward to catch his arm just as his foot gave out and he fell over with a cry of pain. He had no chance to ask the child’s name or see to the extent of his injuries, because that was the precise moment when the knights of Camelot poured out of the woods and surrounded them.

*~*~*

“I should have you hanged for touching my son,” Uther Pendragon said, and Merlin hated to think that he knew the angry expression on the King’s face all too well.

It was just dumb luck that the child he’d rescued outside the forest would be none other than Prince Arthur, recklessly abandoning his guard to go hunting a boar all on his own, and only managing to survive in the nick of time thanks to Merlin’s intervention. Some things, honestly, never changed.

The council chambers had been cleared of all present save for the King and Gaius when Merlin had been dragged in between two guards, followed by a petulant and surly Arthur hanging off the arm of one of the older knights, who had been glad to hand the boy off to Gaius once his injuries had been noticed by the physician. They, Merlin, King Uther, and the group of guards who had probably been charged with accompanying Arthur on his hunt that day were the only ones left in the room.

The knights had been quick to tell the King in what state they’d found the prince once he’d been tracked down, dirty and scratched to bleeding and lying helplessly in a strange man’s arms, but it was admittedly Merlin’s fault that he’d been reluctant to release the boy even after _swords, knights, Pendragon crest_ had registered. It hadn’t even occurred to him that he was manhandling the Prince, so used as he was to the sight of Arthur being much taller and far more adult.

Regardless of whatever good intentions he might have had, Uther was not pleased.

“You will explain yourself and your actions upon the road this day,” Uther continued, and Merlin couldn’t help quelling a little inside at the threatening tone. He’d never been good in direct confrontations with Uther, and even with a few more years on him since their last meeting face-to-face the effect was nearly the same.

“Father,” Arthur said, pushing off Gaius’ hand when the physician moved to help him step forward. “This man saved my life. It wouldn’t be fair to punish him.”

“Is this true?” Uther demanded, not taking his eyes off Merlin.

Merlin nodded, opened his mouth and cleared his throat before finding his voice. “Yes, sire.”

“There _was_ a boar, my lord,” one of the knights offered. “Dead when we found it, but it had the Prince’s spear in its flank. He claims the man killed the beast when it tried to attack him, sire.”

“It seemed very angry at being stabbed,” Merlin added unhelpfully.

Uther’s gaze swiveled slowly between Arthur, the gathered knights, and Merlin, ending the scrutiny with a pointed glare at the man still flanked by two guards. He didn’t look for a minute like he believed that Merlin could have single-handedly killed a rampaging boar. But after a moment his expression shifted and he smiled with what was clearly false congeniality. “Fortunate then, that my son’s first blow wounded it so grievously,” he said, taking a seat in the high backed chair at the head of the table. “I thank you for your bravery, misplaced as it was. What is your name traveler and what brings you to Camelot?”

The guards stepped back and Merlin couldn’t help darting a quick glance in Gaius’ direction, which the physician answered with an unimpressed lift of one eyebrow. “My name is Mer- um, Emrys, sire. Merlin Emrys. From Ealdor. I’ve come to Camelot seeking employment.”

“Ealdor?” Gaius echoed. He looked much more interested in Merlin. “Merlin, you said?”

“Do you know this man, Gaius?” Uther asked as a servant appeared from the side to pour the king a goblet of wine.

“I know of a Merlin, sire, but he is not yet eleven this summer.”

“Yes,” Merlin agreed, stretching his smile until it was nearly uncomfortable. “That’s the son of Hunith, I know them well.” Oh the lies he was being forced to spin already! Merlin could feel a giddy sickness attempting to overtake him, no doubt a case of the nerves compounded by standing in front of Uther and Gaius, two men who had always had a natural ability to reduce Merlin to babbling. “We’re practically neighbors, really. You could say I’m an old friend of the family. Hunith named him after me, Merlin, that is. Her son. It’s a bit unusual, or so I’ve been told, that’s probably why she liked it so much. Um, in fact, she’s the one who told me about Camelot, and about Gauis. Her dear old friend. She said if I wanted work I should come to Camelot and speak to him.”

Gaius still looked skeptical, with one eyebrow perched low as if he hoped to see straight through to all of Merlin’s secrets. Merlin couldn’t help wondering inanely if all that time spent learning spells could have been better spent learning to lie better.

“I’ve never heard her mention you in our letters.”

“Well that’s because, er… I’ve been… traveling. I left when Merlin was just a baby. He probably wouldn’t even remember me, so no good asking me about him. Or him about me. But Hunith always spoke highly of her old friend Gauis, and how often he praised King Uther. You said Camelot was a city of opportunity and she thought it best I come here.”

“Really, Gaius, I had no idea!” Uther exclaimed, sounding pleased.

“Sire,” Gaius replied with a bow. But the look he shot Merlin told him that he hadn’t gotten off the hook. Not by a long shot.

“And what is your trade, Emrys?” Uther asked with a tilt of his cup.

Merlin swallowed. Somehow he didn’t think Gaius would take it too well if another physician presented himself before the king. He well remembered the incident with Muirden and didn’t imagine a repeat of that situation would do any good toward reestablishing his relationship with his old mentor. “A scholar, your highness.”

“I see,” Uther said slowly. Judging by his expression, it seemed he did not. “You are a historian then, like our Geoffery?”

“I suppose, in a way, sire. I’m an academic,” Merlin began, warming a little to the opportunity to boast. He wasn’t half as well-versed as he would have liked to be, but his travels and research had gone well toward exposing him to the plethora of knowledge that existed outside of Albion. “I can speak Latin, Welsh, Frankish, Ogham, some Greek and Arabic, and I can read and translate many other languages. I’m versed in arithmetic, geometry, astrology, biology, and I’ve been studying philosophy in my efforts to learn more of the Greeks. They were, as you know, the model upon which even the Romans fashioned themselves. I’ve found their histories and people to be fascinating.”

“Arthur,” Uther said, standing abruptly. Merlin had almost forgotten about the sullen boy standing off to the side, balancing on one foot while Gaius kept a steady hand on his elbow. “How long has it been since you ran off your last tutor?”

Arthur looked uncomfortable and a bit cross at the reminder, but answered dutifully. “A few months, father.”

“Then we are in luck. It seems your chance meeting this day has proved fortuitous. Emrys, you shall become Prince Arthur’s tutor. You will educate him in all of his studies and you will not want for compensation or lodgings while you stay here in Camelot. What say you?”

It was such an unexpected proposal that Merlin could only nod dumbly. “Yes, of course, I would be honored, sire.” He struck a hasty bow and heard Arthur groan quietly over his shoulder.

“Then you shall have use of the northwest tower. I am sure it will be… suitable accommodations.”

Merlin thought he heard one of the guards snicker quietly, but he was too busy being stunned by the fortunate turn of events. How strangely similar things had played themselves out, and this time he hadn’t needed to kill anyone to earn a place in the royal household either. Being appointed Arthur’s teacher was definitely a step up than being the prince’s all around dog’s body and source of bullying amusement. He’d be on decidedly more equal footing this time around, able to oversee Arthur’s studies, assign him reading material, open his eyes to a whole world beyond Camelot’s prejudiced borders, expose him to science and philosophies and old religions stretching far, far into the past. It was a heady and exciting thought, and the rush of feeling washing through Merlin made him almost light-headed with the sudden possibilities.

“By your leave sire, I will tend to your son’s injuries,” Gaius said, jolting Merlin out of his fantasy of parchment scrolls and towers of leather bound books. The physician led a limping Arthur out of the chambers as Uther waved them off.

“Someone will see to your arrangements,” Uther told Merlin, a hint of a smile turning the corner of his mouth that Merlin wasn’t entirely sure he liked the look of. The King turned his attention back to the scrolls and documents on the long table that had been put aside with his arrival, and as the council members began filing back in Merlin knew he’d been dismissed.

Merlin was allowed to retrieve his things from his horse and he turned the mare over to the royal stables to be looked after. He didn’t think he’d have much use for the mount, but it was nice knowing that he wouldn’t need to borrow one of Arthur’s more robust stallions this time around. It had taken him months to feel comfortable riding those massive excuses for a domesticated equine.

Merlin followed a pageboy through several familiar corridors, plus or minus a few tapestries and sconces that had been replaced or upgraded in the intervening years. He was shown into one of the western towers he’d had no reason to visit or investigate during his time as Arthur’s servant, which hadn’t struck Merlin as odd at the time since there were quite a few places where servants weren’t allowed to venture. But upon reaching the set of rooms at the top after leaving the boy at the bottom of the steps with a slack-jawed expression that had made his eyes look ready to fall out of his head, Merlin realized why no one was bothering to use them.

The place was in shambles. The top room of the tower appeared to contain two spaces, the main floor and a loft that could be reached by a ladder from the first. Merlin only gave that dark and cramped looking space a passing look while he stood under the open hole (the rungs on the ladder looked ready to fall to pieces at any moment), and focused his attention on the state of his future quarters. Only two of the windows in the whole room still had their glass panes, the rest either missing or lying in pieces across the floor, and a cold draft cut through the open space with a temperature much lower than the outside air. Almost every available piece of furniture was broken, rotted through, or frayed and chewed, as if the room had served as a dumping ground for items discarded from disuse or poor maintenance. The layers of dust and cobwebs were thick and looked as though they hadn’t been touched in a decade, and Merlin could hear the scratch of rats hiding among the debris as he stepped gingerly around the room. He wouldn’t have been surprised to find that the roof leaked too, come Camelot’s first summer rainstorm. The floor was heavily stained with water damage, bird droppings, and other bits of refuse that Merlin didn’t even want to consider the identity of.

Merlin sighed aloud and rubbed the bridge of his nose. It wouldn’t be nice of him to curse Uther with a nasty case of hemorrhoids, even if it would make him feel better. Immensely better. It was his own fault for not remembering that Uther’s particular kind of generosity often came with its own set of complications. This time around seemed to be no exception.

A scrabbling on one of the stone ledges caught Merlin’s attention, and he looked over to see Archimedes folding his wings in to fit inside the narrow width of the windowsill.

“Looks like you found me,” Merlin said with a wan smile, to which the bird replied with a series of inquisitive chirps.

“I know, it’s a mess. But it’s going to be our new home for a while. Tell me if you hate it, I’ll understand. I might have you go leave a pellet on the King’s pillow to teach him a lesson. You’d do that for me, wouldn’t you?”

Archimedes’ head cocked to the side, ignoring Merlin in favor of listening to the faint scurrying of four-legged feet running across the floor. After a few seconds he pushed off from the sill, silent, short wing beats carrying him to a corner of the room, and Merlin watched the owl disappear among the debris with a loud crash and the squeak of an unsuspecting rat finding itself on the short end of Archimedes’ talons.

Merlin rolled his eyes. “Well, at least one of us is happy.” He set his satchel down on one of the sturdier looking tables, which promptly toppled over in a cloud of dust and splintered wood. Merlin sighed again, locked the door with a look, and rolled up his shirtsleeves. He had work to do.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> On a note: this story was originally written mid-way through season 2 and prior to any knowledge we had about Merlin's father and what information Gaius had kept from him regarding Balinor. Though it puts the story "out of canon" I felt this section would suffer too much if I made the change to bring it around to follow the series.
> 
> Once again [](http://www.livejournal.com/users/dria_uesugi/profile)[**dria_uesugi**](http://www.livejournal.com/users/dria_uesugi/) did a fabulous job, but I have to confess that I went in behind her with more edits and probably made an even bigger mess of things. Any remaining mistakes are entirely my own!

Merlin shouldn’t have been surprised when Gaius was the first one to visit him that evening. Merlin had only ventured outside of his newly appointed rooms twice – once to grab some food from the kitchen, and another time to deliver a suspiciously bulging bag to the castle’s seneschal with the instructions that it was to be burned immediately. He hadn’t run into the physician even during those brief treks through the keep, though Merlin hadn’t been keen on going looking for him either. Seeing both Gaius and Arthur again, both of them alive and well that afternoon, had been trying enough on his emotions, and Merlin knew that embracing this boyish version of Arthur or blubbering into Gaius’ robes like a girl wouldn't go over well. Gaius already seemed suspicious of him and Merlin was still kicking himself mentally every few hours for that brilliant failure of yarn spinning. Maybe, given enough time and with his disguise as an older man, he could develop a relationship with the physician that would involve much less yelling about Merlin’s stupidity and knee-jerk decision-making. It was a hopeful thought, but not an avenue he thought he could pursue with any sort of success at the moment.

Merlin answered the knock on his door and blinked in surprise at the man on the other side. “Gaius! That is, Gaius, is it? Yes? Please come in.”

“Thank you,” Gaius said, stepping slowly into the room, as if aware of what horrors might be found beyond the threshold. Merlin saw his eyebrows go up at the sight of the clean floor and the shutters that he’d installed over the broken windows and couldn’t help smiling proudly. Let it never be said that Merlin didn’t know how to clean his own room once he put his mind to it. And a whole lot of magic.

“You have been busy,” Gaius observed, looking pointedly at the cobweb free walls, the stacks of books and assorted bric-a-brac scattered around the room, and the narrow bed with its intact frame, plump looking mattress and freshly laundered sheets. Merlin wasn’t about to admit that he’d nicked the linens from the castle laundry or that he’d taken the mattress from one of the unused guest chambers; his time as a servant had educated him thoroughly in the way that things had a habit of going suspiciously missing, and he doubted the loss would be remarked upon. He only wished there were some bookshelves to be found in the castle, but he’d given up for the time being and had resorted to stacking the books he’d brought with him into knee-high towers that were grouped together around the floor. Most were being used as substitute tables and had become the resting places for his collection of candles, jars, pestles, measuring tools, quills, and rolls of parchment.

“Would you like some tea?” Merlin offered, indicating the pot sitting on the one table he’d managed to acquire intact. The candlesticks and crockery he’d brought from the future were laid out on the surface, the remains of his late dinner pushed to one side.

Gaius seemed more interested in inspecting the room, transformed as it was over the course of the day from a rotting mess into a functioning living space, and he shook his head absently. “No, thank you. You’ve arrived with much more than I would have expected.”

“Um, well I’m kind of attached to my books. They go everywhere with me. The rest just seems to follow along of their own accord. Ah… ha, but not literally, of course. That would be silly and probably illegal in some manner. Um, was there something I could do for you?” Merlin ventured, wondering now at the purpose of the visit.

“Yes, my apologies,” Gaius said, redirecting his attention to Merlin. “I’ve come to perform an evaluation. As court physician, it is my duty to know the infirmities of all residents of the castle. It’s become standard protocol for anyone living here, I hope you understand.”

“Oh, of course. I don’t mind.”

“Very well. Have you any old injuries, any chronic ailments, any contusions or rashes I might need to provide medicine for?”

Merlin shrugged and shook his head in the negative. “I’ve an old scar here that’s long healed over.” He pointed to the area of his left shoulder. “Accident with the wrong end of a blade, I’m afraid. I get a stitch in the muscle every now and then but it’s nothing I haven’t been able to handle on my own.”

Gaius nodded in understanding. “I can supply you with some ointment to rub into the skin if you require it. Now please have a seat and I will examine you.”

Merlin sat down on the room’s only stool, which he’d had to magically repair along with the bed frame and two smaller side tables. It was a wonder that anyone could have been expected to live in the tower and not flee the castle at first sight, which Merlin thought in retrospect had probably been expected of him from the beginning. On the whole it didn’t speak well of Uther and his lack of sincerity towards Arthur’s education, as he’d apparently let Arthur run off his last tutor and had now virtually exiled the replacement to the farthest side of the castle. It was quite possible that Merlin was even more resolute in staying; if the outcome of the future was not enough, this version of Camelot had far more things going wrong for it than he would have suspected. Arthur was little more than a spoilt brat, Uther had no respect for a man of academia, and the knights were even more idiotic than Merlin remembered them being while in Arthur’s service. It was a wonder Camelot had survived through the decade at all.

Gaius went through a visual check-up much like the first one Merlin had received when he’d come to Camelot. He inspected Merlin’s mouth and teeth, the whites of his eyes, listened to his breathing, had Merlin raise and lower his arms and squeeze a leather ball for several seconds with each hand. He pinched Merlin’s calves, had him take off his shoes and wiggle all of his toes, and lastly had him demonstrate his flexibility by standing and attempting to grasp his ankles.

“You’re in remarkably good shape for your age,” Gaius pronounced when the examination was over, and Merlin shrugged self-consciously. “Though much skinner than I’d like to see my patients. Do you eat enough?”

“Often,” Merlin said with a small laugh. “I’ve been this way all my life. It just… doesn't stick around, doesn’t matter how much I eat.”

Gaius hummed and crossed his arms to fix Merlin with a look of close scrutiny. “Now, I would like to ask you about your association with Hunith.”

The point blank statement took Merlin completely by surprise. “Hunith?”

“Yes. You claim to know her, yet I have never in my life heard her speak of you. Only your name, and that is in regard to her son. She and I have been friends for many years and I feel it is my duty to raise these questions on her behalf. Can you explain your relationship to Hunith and her child?”

“Relationship?” Merlin repeated, still catching up with the sudden turn in the conversation. “You mean, as neighbors?”

“No, I think in this instance we’re speaking of something much more personal than that.”

“We are?”

Gaius’ face was growing more severe and pinched, a direct reflection of his frustration. “You have implied that you know Hunith very well, yet she has never once told me the identity of the man who sired her son. Are you the father?”

“What?” Merlin squeaked. “What, no! No! I swear, I never touched her, I… oh I can’t even think about it! How could you ask me something like that?”

Gaius rocked back a bit, looking surprised by Merlin’s outburst. “You come from the same village and share the name of her child, what other conclusion was there to draw?”

“Maybe she really liked the name!” Merlin grabbed his hair and almost flinched at the unfamiliar sensation of the thinner strands between his fingers. This was not how he’d imagined a first meeting with Gaius would go. “No, there was no… _relationship_ , of _any_ sort with Hunith. I’m just a friend of the family.”

“Somehow I’m disinclined to believe you. If I were to write to Hunith to check the veracity of your story, what would she tell me?”

Merlin gulped. “Why would you do that? You don’t need to bother her, she… I’m sure she wouldn’t even remember me.”

“And yet you claim that she named her child after you. That does not strike me as something that could be so easily forgotten. Hunith is a dear friend of mine and I wish for you to tell me truthfully – did you sire her son?”

“No!” Merlin repeated emphatically, feeling his hopes for avoiding the disastrous conversation going astray. Gaius had always been his best mentor and worst confidant, and he was like a stubborn dog when it came to picking through a lie or latching onto a problem, often leading Merlin to revealing more of the truth than he’d intended. And this seemed no different than any other time Merlin had gotten trouble by saying one thing too many.

“There is still something you are not telling me,” Gaius said pointedly. He didn’t sound like he’d believed a word of Merlin’s protests, either.

Merlin groaned inwardly in frustration. “That might be the case, but just because I don’t want to tell you it doesn’t mean… that doesn’t mean I’m lying about how I know Hunith. I understand that you care about her, but I swear to you on my mother’s life that I am not lying.”

There was a lengthy pause, one that Merlin felt himself fidgeting through the longer Gaius stared at him. In an effort to collect himself he turned to walk away and stand by the nearest window, one of the few in the room left intact. The view of the city through the lead-lined panes reminded Merlin of another time he’d stood at a tower’s open window, watching the moon rise over Camelot for the first time. How innocent and foolishly full of wonder he’d been back then, marveling at a city that did not sleep when the sun disappeared from the sky.

“I would suggest that you be honest with me, Emrys,” Gaius warned after a tense moment, and Merlin couldn't stop the twinge of guilt at the physician’s tone. “I will be forced to go to Uther and inform him of my suspicions, that you are hiding something and are untrustworthy. You have lied about your origins, and that they have direct ties to me leads me to believe that you wish to cause some harm here at court, using credentials which I cannot immediately verify. I promise that you will spend the night in the dungeon if you do not answer my questions. Who are you? Why have you come to Camelot?”

Merlin exhaled against the glass, a nervous chill sweeping him from head to foot. Gaius’ words had cut with sharp accuracy, and his fingers rubbed against the sleeve of his tunic as the fog from his breath briefly obscured the glittering city. “They weren’t lies.”

Deep down a part of him longed to tell Gaius the truth, and seeing the physician again today had set loose an aching need to confide in the man who had been his mentor, who had cared for Merlin like a father and had taken Merlin’s secret with him into death. But Gaius’ threats and clear loyalty to his King were making the years that spanned between the _here and now_ and _then_ even more clear and unnerving. Merlin wanted to believe he could gain the man’s trust, to have a piece of something he’d once thought lost forever back in his life, but there were stark differences between the man he’d once known and the one standing here. Merlin was no longer a naive boy who needed guidance and direction, and Gaius had not yet become the man who wanted to make amends for his mistakes. Without that understanding to bridge the gap between them, Merlin didn’t know if they could even make it this time without becoming enemies.

“I didn’t lie about everything,” Merlin began again, swallowing hard. He cleared his throat. “I may have… twisted things. Everything I said, about the knowledge I have, that’s the truth. I am capable of being Prince Arthur’s tutor.”

“And the rest of it?”

Merlin’s heart was beating fast and he rubbed a hand over his beard and behind his neck, frowning at the unfamiliar texture and the light sweat he could feel breaking out on his skin. Amazing, that he could face down the armies of Camelot without flinching, yet having Gaius demand answers from him was turning him into a nervous boy all over again. “The rest is a lot harder to believe. Are you sure you really want to know?”

“I’m afraid I must insist. My duty to the King would not let me say otherwise.”

Merlin’s felt something wither inside him in disappointment. He knew Gaius, loved the man, but a decade was still enough time for someone to change, to have stronger ties in other places and to other people. To a terrible King that killed out of fear and hatred. Gaius may have practiced magic in his younger years but he’d also turned on his own kind, aided Uther in the purges and stood by while countless hundreds died. It was very possible that whatever had driven his actions then might still linger with him now, and there was nothing to say that the considerate mentor Merlin had known even existed within this man standing before him. If Gaius did call the guards on him, he supposed he could always throw himself out the tower window and attempt to return another day and under another disguise. Losing him as an ally would be painful but preventing Gaius’ untimely death, even if that meant avoiding the physician at all costs, would be worth the sacrifice in the end.

“I must warn you, that you did ask,” Merlin said, bracing for the worst. He nudged the window open a precautionary crack before returning his hands to his sides where they balled into tense fists. He licked his lips and whispered the counter spell to his disguise. “ _Onwréon_.”

Gaius gasped and stepped back as the illusion of age slipped away, but Merlin knew that it was the flash of gold in his eyes that had given him away completely. “You’re a sorcerer!”

Merlin nodded stiffly, fingernails digging sharply into his palms. “Yes, and I’m sorry for deceiving you. But before you have me arrested know that my name is Merlin and I _am_ the son of Hunith. I know now it was foolish to use my own name but I was a bit unprepared to see you and it was the only thing I could think of.”

“That’s impossible,” Gaius said, but he wasn’t inching for the door or shouting for the guards, which was promising. “Hunith’s child is young still. You are a grown man, though I can see not nearly the age you would have us believe.”

“It’s a spell. I knew it would be difficult to find a profession in Camelot if I showed up looking like this. But I really am Merlin, I was born and lived in Ealdor my whole life, or mostly that is. I’m just… not from this time. Not from the present.”

Gaius’ eyebrows arched impressively. “Are you honestly trying to tell me you’re…”

“From the future?” Merlin finished. He could have laughed at the incredulous look on Gaius’ face had the situation been less intimidating, because the words sounded no less believable coming from his own mouth. He lifted a hand to gesture toward the stone walls of Camelot and beyond, his stomach churning sharply. “I found a way to travel through time, so I could come back to fix things. Where I’m from, in the future, so many things that I… there are things taking place that should never have happened. Good people are dying, have died, and I probably shouldn’t even be telling you about it but… I have to do something to stop it. No matter what I have to keep the future from happening the same way it did for me. If I don’t fix it this country, not just Camelot but all of Albion and their people will suffer something far worse than Uther’s First Purge. I know I have the power to change that and I have to at least try, because if I can’t protect… if I’m not close enough to save…”

Merlin had to stop to take a deep breath, embarrassed by how thick his voice had grown. The fresh pain of Arthur’s death still threatened to bring tears to his eyes, regardless than he’d seen him again for the first time in years that very same day. The boy Prince was just that, a child, and though they shared the same blood he was nothing compared to the memories of Arthur that Merlin carried with him. The Prince he’d know and cared for loyally to the end had died on a battlefield for Merlin’s mistakes; it was a loss he didn’t imagine he could ever fully heal from.

“I’m sorry,” Merlin apologized, brushing the back of his hand over his eyes. “It’s only that I know how bad things can get. I swear to you that it’s worse than anything we feared might happen. There’s a war going on and my only choice was to come back, to make sure it goes right this time. This was the only choice I had left. It’s the truth even if you won’t believe me.”

“I don’t know what to believe,” Gaius admitted. His mouth had fixed itself into a heavy frown, but his eyes were pensive as they gazed at Merlin. “Clearly you are a sorcerer, but moving through time is not like any spell I have heard of before. And claiming to be the future incarnation of a small boy I only know through letters with his mother… you’ve created the perfect excuse to get close to me without allowing me to verify if you’re being honest.”

“I know it sounds mad but I wouldn’t lie about this to you, it’s the truth,” Merlin pleaded. Gaius’ stony expression didn’t flicker in the slightest, and Merlin’s hopes for reaching the man fell further. He knew his voice was growing more desperate than certain, and his unstable emotions and half-spoken truths were probably doing less good than helping his promises of sincerity. The Gaius of Merlin’s time might have been willing to put up with some of Merlin’s idiosyncrasies, but this one was a stranger who only saw a sorcerer he didn’t know making wild claims that probably sounded more crazy than real. It was no less than Merlin had feared yet the disappointment he was feeling was palpable, seeing his one ally only slipping farther away the harder he tried.

Merlin shook his head, dispelling his thoughts and the bleak direction they had turned. He took a deep breath and consciously unclenched his fingers, searching for the same center of calm he’d achieved so many times on the battlefield. If there was ever a moment he needed rational clear thinking, now was it. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean… that is, sometimes I let my emotions get the best of me. You’re afraid I’m here to attack Camelot. I can promise you that I’m not here to harm anyone, most especially not King Uther or Prince Arthur. I know how much they mean to you and they, more than anyone, are the two people I’ve sworn to protect most of all. They’re the key to preventing the future I’ve lived through, and I don’t intend to do that by taking lives or destroying Camelot in the process. I’m not a sorcerer out for revenge. I want what’s best for this world, for this country, and that means making sure that Arthur becomes a King worthy of the ages. It’s the destiny he’s meant for, the one I’m meant to give to him, the one I failed to do the first time.

“You have to understand that this isn’t the first time we’ve met Gaius, not for me.” A smile pulled at the corner of his mouth, but he knew it was bitter at best. “I’ve already come to Camelot once to meet you, five years ago in my time. My mother sent me here to apprentice under you when I was eighteen and you were just as astonished about my magic then as you are now. You helped Camelot become my home, even though every day we were hiding and keeping my magic a secret. Coming back here, having a second chance to do things right… it’s been all I could think of for months. I wish there was a better way I could prove who I am to you, but I’d rather not ask you to bring my mum here and have her see me like this. I _am_ Merlin. I’m just a lot older, and I suppose I know a bit more about magic now than I did a few years ago.”

Gaius, thankfully, seemed curious enough to continue to listen. “If you are Hunith’s son, then who instructed you?”

Merlin’s smile grew wider. “You did, actually. You don’t practice magic anymore, I know, and you hadn’t for years even when I met you, but I guess you saw something in me. Something no one had ever seen before. When I came to Camelot I didn’t know who to trust or who I could talk about it with; it was just this thing I could do, this power that came when I was upset or just reacting, but I didn’t know what it was or how to control it. You were the first person to teach me about magic, about using spells and how to read runes and the old languages, about different kinds of magical plants and creatures. You taught me so much, Gaius. You were always telling me to go slow, to master my abilities and not to rush into things, but I would do it anyway and you always got me out of the worst cock-ups. And then sometimes you would drop a spell on me and tell me to do it or die trying, or someone else would die if I couldn’t do it in time. You told me my magic had a purpose. That I had a destiny to fulfill by using it. You only wanted great things for me, for Camelot and Arthur too. I’ve always believed you were right and that’s why I knew I had to come back to see it through. To make sure the future you wanted for this country to happen.”

For the first time in their conversation, Merlin saw some of the hostile suspicion in Gaius’ expression slip away. There was still doubt in his eyes, plain as day, but Merlin’s words must have drawn him into the story and the picture he was painting of their future together. “I’m astonished, if what you say is true. Not many know of my history, and those who do remember know that I have sworn a solemn oath never to involve myself in the magical arts again. And unless the ban on magic has changed in the future, I can’t imagine I would take such a risk. Not without good reason.”

“I don’t know why you decided to disobey the law,” Merlin confessed. “I only knew you because of the letters my mum read me that you’d sent to us. Did you know she taught me how to read and write from them? And when I came here… erm, you kind of found out I had magic by accident when I saved your life the first day we met. And you told me to be careful and not get caught using magic. But there was a banquet you’d asked me to help out during and I saved Arthur’s life when this witch tried to kill him, so Uther wanted to reward me. He made me Arthur’s manservant and you thought it could be my purpose, to protect Arthur. You were right about that. Honestly he would have been dead a dozen times over if I hadn’t been there to keep on saving his life and clean up the messes he got into. That is, he would have. I mean the Arthur from my time, not this one. I’m sorry it’s all a little bit confusing.”

“To say the least,” Gaius agreed with a small frown. “You seem to know enough details about me that, I am reluctant to admit, gives you some credibility. But I still don’t understand how your travel through time was possible. No where have I read or heard of this type of magic or seen its likeness in my lifetime. It would defy the very laws of nature.”

Merlin lifted a hand and rotated his wrist lightly, leaving it palm up. “I can show you, if you’ll trust me?”

Merlin had a moment to spare a thought on whether this would be the last time he could make such an offer, but after a brief pause Gaius nodded, which was more than enough to give Merlin a bit of optimism. He turned and pointed his hand at the table, willing the kettle of water sitting on the surface to lift and hover over the floor. With a flick of his fingers he tipped it over and, as the water began to pour, felt a rush of warmth behind his eyes as he forced time to slow around the liquid and come to a halt. The pot and stream of water were left suspended in the air, hovering and glimmering as the candlelight was reflected through the frozen cascade.

“Incredible,” Gaius declared, stepping closer to the motionless kettle. “Where did you learn such a spell?”

“It’s not a spell, not exactly. I’m not even sure what you could call it, but I’ve always been able to do this. For as long as I can remember. Most of my life I didn’t know anything about magic or incantations, not until I came to Camelot. You told me about them when you found out what I could do.”

“And is this the kind of sorcery you used to come to the past?” Gaius asked, brushing his hand curiously through the stationary beads of water.

Merlin shook his head. “Not directly no, but it’s what made me think to try. I wasn’t always able to control time this well, just enough to slow things down to give me time to think. It wasn’t something I thought about as being useful except when I was trying to save someone, so I’d never bothered to test my own limits.”

Merlin made another small gesture with his hand that sent the water flowing back into the kettle, rapidly reversing direction as it was sucked back into the pot. He settled it on the table once more with a soft clunk and let his hand drop. Gaius had watched the process with avid interest, as if whatever suspicion he was feeling had been overshadowed by his own curiosity. It made Merlin smile a little to himself. Some things hadn’t changed, and it was small comfort given how much harder it was turning out to gain the man’s trust his time around.

“That’s something that came later,” Merlin continued, nodding toward the table. “Controlling small pockets of time. Making things go faster or slower, or moving them backwards. It took me years to perfect that and learn to control it.

“There was a day about a year after the war started when I was called to battle. Things were already going badly and the Druid- sorry, maybe I shouldn’t have said that? Um, the Druids were being pushed back into a chokehold and I couldn’t seem to figure out what to do fast enough, and then… I don’t know. The only way I can describe it is that my magic just… moved in a new way. It only took a split second and then everything stopped. Not slowed down, completely stopped.

“I thought I had done what I’ve always been able to do at first, but when I realized that nothing was changing, like the whole world except for me had just frozen in its tracks, it was… the scariest thing I’d ever seen,” Merlin admitted with a rough swallow. “But it gave me time to disarm all of the enemy and move the injured out of the way to where they could get help. It was the first time I’d done something like that but it made me wonder if maybe there was more I could do. If there were other ways to unlock my powers. If I could slow time down and stop it, maybe I could reverse it too. So I started researching and doing experiments and, well, here I am.”

“I imagine it took a great deal more than that,” Gaius said with his usual acuteness. He was studying Merlin speculatively with his arms crossed into the sleeves of his robes. “If I may ask, what happened that day you stopped time? I assume it eventually returned to normal?”

Merlin looked away and couldn’t help frowning at the memory. It was an experience that he hadn’t shared with anyone, even Archimedes. “To be honest I was so surprised that I hardly believed it at first. After I’d gone round removing every shield and sword and knife and moved the wounded I just waited to see if time moved forward again. I didn’t know if I could even do it myself when I wasn’t sure how it had happened in the first place. I didn’t know if I’d broken time or if this was just something new. But the longer I waited the more… you have to understand Gaius, it was the first time, the first time in years there’d been any sort of peace. No one was fighting, no one was dying. I was alone but everyone was safe. I wanted to keep that. I wanted to keep it more than anything. So I told myself maybe that was the price of it. My solitude to make sure no one ever died, never again.”

Merlin’s feet had begun a slow trek between the table and his bed while he spoke, and he halted a step away from one of his leaning book piles. He looked down at his hands and flexed them, absently noting the difference between the age spotted flesh of his disguise and the pale knuckles that harbored a collection of scars and ragged nails and burn marks, and even a fading bruise on his wrist from when the chain on the well had caught him less than a week ago. The spot was still tender but the where and the when felt almost like a lifetime ago. How far he had traveled, through both time and distance, and yet the memories of battle and the shame of his selfish behavior could still steal the breath from his throat.

“I was wrong. I started feeling guilty and sick after… I don’t know, I couldn’t keep track of the hours by then. Did you know that fire doesn’t burn, that food doesn’t cook when time stops completely?” Merlin asked, looking toward Gaius and meeting his contemplative gaze with one that he hoped didn’t completely reveal how much his memories of that time unnerved him. “When everything stops like that nothing moves, nothing lives. You can’t even appreciate watching a butterfly in mid-flight when it’s nothing more than a stone. The world stops and there’s no more suffering and no more pain, but there’s no joy to be found either. It’s no better than death, just a mercy killing in disguise.

“I found a safe place to stand at the top of a hill and I tried to put it right. I pushed and pushed, it was like pushing the biggest, heaviest stone you’ve ever had to move in your whole life, and then… well I guess it worked, because I only remember waking up later on the ground and the sun had gone down and I had the worst headache in my entire life.”

Merlin grimaced at the memory and ran a hand through his too-long hair. “When I got back to the encampment they said the enemy had fled when they realized they were completely unarmed. Everyone was calling it a miracle and thanking the old gods for saving them. I didn’t tell them it was me. I couldn’t take credit, not after I realized how horrible a thing it could be or how it could be abused. I never wanted to go through that again. But it got me thinking about how time works. Once I realized what I could do, I had to wonder what I would change if I could go back. If I could rewind time on that battlefield or go back a week, a month, to a time before the war had even started. Wouldn’t you change the biggest mistake of your life if you had the power to?”

“I don’t think I’m quite up to the level of your abilities, Merlin,” Gaius said dryly, but there was a thoughtfulness in his eyes that had Merlin swallowing and looking away, lest the tightness in his throat choke him off any more. It was the first time Gaius had spoken his name since his visit to the room.

“I think you sell your convictions short – not all men are so eager to correct their worst regrets, or even willing to admit that they are there to begin with. By your accounts, you are probably the most powerful sorcerer in all of history, and that you are striving to use it for good is commendable. But your magic is unlike anything I have ever seen or heard of, and I daresay you have gone above and beyond men and normal magic. You have succeeded in mastering _time_ itself.”

Merlin couldn’t help flushing at the praise, though beneath it lurked the ever-present guilt, the reasons for why he’d even needed to pursue an idea so radical. “I won’t say it was easy or that it didn’t scare me a little at times. I spent over a year experimenting with it, trying different ways to control time. I thought I could will something through time the same way I could make a stream of water stop mid-flow, but that only seemed to work in a defined space and within a few seconds, like you saw with the kettle. And then I read about portals in the book you gave me… yeah,” he confirmed at Gaius’ look of surprise. “You gave me your spellbook the same night I saved Arthur’s life the first time. I swore I’d study every word and I did, eventually. It was all I had to help with my work for a long time. So I thought a portal might work, and I built one on this hill where I… oh here I’ll show you.”

Merlin waved at one of the book stacks and a few of the tomes and several rolls of loose parchment floated over to the table and spread themselves open on the surface as Merlin stepped over to it. “It’s this incredible place a few days ride to the north, very strong earth magic all in one spot. Someone built a church on top of the hill but it fell to ruin years ago. I felt a couple of earthquakes while I was there, nearly lost my head thinking I’d done something wrong the first few times. But it turned out perfect and the portal worked better than I expected it to. I started out simple at first, just sending things like rocks and wood a few minutes into the future. And then I tried sending things to the past… oh that was so confusing, I had things popping out before I’d even done anything-”

“Merlin,” Gaius interrupted. He sounded slightly irritated, even though he’d been peering at Merlin’s scribbles and diagrams with interest a moment earlier. “This is all very fascinating, and I am feeling more inclined to believe your incredible story despite how far-fetched it seems, because you strike me as clever but also uncontrollably garrulous – but you can’t just go around waving your hands like you’ve been doing. What if someone were to walk in, or overhear you chanting a spell or speaking about magic so casually? Your life is in danger every moment you stay here. What on Earth possessed you to come _here_ once you’d come to the past?”

Merlin shuffled and tried not to look as contrite as he felt. “Well… that might have been the part I hadn’t completely worked out yet.”

Gaius frowned in disappointment. “I am beginning to wonder how you ever managed to live in Camelot as a sorcerer without being discovered.”

“I wasn’t, not for a long while at least,” Merlin protested. “I did magic all the time and no one noticed. I can be careful. I managed to get appointed as Arthur’s tutor, so that part worked out fine.”

“You were arrested for attempting to kidnap the Prince! Was that also included in your plans?”

“No,” Merlin conceded, sighing and taking a seat on the stool. He ran both hands through his hair and looked up at Gaius. “Do you think I’ve botched things up? Uther sent me to this tower like it was a joke. He probably suspects me of being a sorcerer already.”

Gaius rolled his eyes and stepped forward, clasping Merlin’s shoulder and drawing him up to stand again. “The King does not suspect you, or you would have been thrown into the dungeons already. He does not trust you, or take your profession seriously, which are very different things. I believe he truly does intend for you to tutor his son, and perhaps this is something that you can use to your advantage.”

“What do you mean?”

“I understand that you do not wish to tell me of future events, and I agree that it would be knowledge best not shared carelessly, but from your words earlier I gather that certain things were influenced directly by your own actions, and perhaps Arthur’s and myself? Correct?” Merlin nodded reluctantly. “Perhaps it would be best for you to think on what caused them, and what steps can be taken to prevent them from coming to pass now that you hold a place within the court. You will have the Prince’s ear, and to some extent his father’s, if you can prove your usefulness to him. This is not a position to be taken lightly. You can wield incredible power by the strength of your words alone, and combined with your magic I am sure that you can find a way to prevent that dark future you lived through.”

“You’re right,” Merlin said as he was reminded of his earlier thoughts regarding Arthur’s education. His smile wobbled with emotion. “Thank you, Gaius. It’s… it’s really good to see you again. I know you don’t even know me yet… but, I’m really, really happy you’re here. You’ve always had the best advice for me.”

Gaius stepped back and clasped his hands together, his shoulders betraying a slight air of awkwardness, but his eyes reflected understanding as Merlin visibly collected himself. The expression was so familiar that Merlin’s heart ached in his chest, threatening to bring those tears that he’d been worried might come spilling out without his consent. It had been three years since he’d last seen his mentor or heard his voice, time that had been spent among allies that Merlin had never truly felt a part of, lonely and wishing that things had somehow turned out differently. Gaius couldn’t know any of it but Merlin took solace in his presence and the understanding they’d tentatively come around to. It was an immense relief, to not have to hide from the one person he’d become so used to trusting with his secrets.

“I’m glad to have been of some help. If you wish to speak of anything else, you’re welcome to come see me in the physician’s quarters. I assume that you already know where they are?”

“Yes,” Merlin agreed, smiling winsomely. “I do. And you know, you’re welcome to come up here too. I managed to track down copies of some of your books, after… well, after I left Camelot. But I also found some I’d never seen in your library before. You’re welcome to borrow them, if you like?”

Gaius chuckled. “I fear the staircases to reach here might be a bit too much for a man of my age, but I would be happy to visit and share a pot of tea once in a fortnight. I suppose it’s fortunate that you’re so far away from the rest of the castle; I’m sure discussions of magical books and spells would not do well to be overheard by someone casually passing by.”

“You know, I wish we’d thought of that sooner,” Merlin mused as he followed Gaius to the door. He smiled crookedly at the raised eyebrow that got him in return. “I can’t remember how many times you and I were nearly caught in your quarters with a book of magic lying right there out in the open for anyone to see. Arthur would pop by out of the blue, or some soldier or courtier would come in wanting a potion or to have an injury looked at, and we’d only manage to cover everything up at the last second.”

“My word. Clearly I become senile in my old age,” Gaius bemoaned, but his lips were twitching as he turned to leave. “Goodnight, Merlin. Perhaps I don't need to say this but... do be careful.”

“Thanks, Gaius, I will. Goodnight.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   
> **Glossary**   
> 
> 
> _Onwréon_ – to expose/reveal


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Huge thanks as always go to the lovely [](http://www.livejournal.com/users/dria_uesugi/profile)[**dria_uesugi**](http://www.livejournal.com/users/dria_uesugi/) , who is innocently unaware that I went and added a few thousand words to this chapter since the last time she saw it. All remaining mistakes are most certainly my own.

Merlin awoke late the next morning to the partial gloom of a room hindered by having no intact windows facing eastward. It was something he had a feeling only Archimedes fully appreciated, as the owl was nesting in one of Merlin’s less-worn shirts, tucked into a corner of the room where the shadows converged at their darkest. Merlin was quiet as he dressed, mindful of his slumbering friend, but it was only once he had the tower door open and a foot on the top stone step that he belatedly remembered the need to apply his disguise. It seemed Gaius had been right to warn him the night before; he really needed to be more careful, and the realization was like a cold slap against his nerves. He’d spent so many years using his magic freely, without fear of being burned or beheaded, that the instinct to cast whenever it pleased him was something he’d come to never question or repress. Apparently he had more to work on than simply figuring out a way to alter the future or how to be a proper tutor for Arthur.

After finding himself breakfast in the kitchens Merlin flagged down a passing servant, who then took him to meet Prince Arthur’s manservant in the castle laundry rooms – a stooped old man named Johnson that looked as if he barely had the strength to lift a full pitcher of wine, let alone the energy to dress an impatient prince in the morning. Merlin greeted the man with more congenial warmth than was probably warranted (he couldn’t help feeling sympathetic), but his broad smile only got him a few hard stares and a cool but polite dismissal when he asked about Arthur’s whereabouts. It was assumed to be common knowledge that Arthur was already training that morning with the knights, but Johnson held out with an imprecise ‘late afternoon’ when Merlin tried repeatedly to learn the time of his return. All Merlin could do in the end was ask the man to pass along that he would be returning later to begin Arthur’s studies, and he left wondering what exactly it was about Arthur that seemed to inspire such overprotective behavior; it was something he hadn’t been immune to feeling either, if his memories of Cedric were anything to go by.

Merlin took a slow jaunt through the castle to pass the time, familiarizing once more himself with the stone corridors and the particular twists and turns, tucked away staircases and narrow passages that only the servants ever had need to know of and use on a regular basis. It was all intimately connected in his memory but there was an odd sense of dislocation as well, something that made the years between his last time in the castle and his present self impossible to ignore. He felt not quite like a stranger but not quite like he’d come home either, caught somewhere in-between and knowing that, in all truthfulness, this Camelot was not the one he’d been secretly longing to return to. He wanted to banish the feeling away, because what was done was done and his Camelot, his Arthur, were gone to him for good. But the unhappiness lingered like a living thing, quietly making itself known in the way it coiled and squeezed his heart each time he rounded a corner, half-hoping to see broad shoulders and blond hair waiting on the other side.

His journey eventually took him to the castle’s Hall of Records, where he found himself becoming acquainted with Geoffrey of Monmouth on much more even footing than his previous run-ins with the historian. Merlin didn’t imagine that the years could really have changed them so much, but by some miracle they found themselves soon locked in discussion over topics like the advantages of vellum versus parchment, book binding techniques, and even debating on whether or not the ideas of the ancient Greek scholars had any merit in their modern world. Merlin went so far as to dispute the veracity of several famous battles that Geoffrey claimed to have documented himself from reputable sources, and perhaps even more astounding was Geoffrey’s willingness to aid him when Merlin expressed a desire to borrow books for his lessons. Merlin left two hours later with an armload of musty smelling texts and feeling like his brain was buzzing with the wing beats of a thousand mayflies, thoughts spinning and searching for new crevices to store information. Gaius had always been rather strict about warning Merlin off pestering the fussy librarian or being caught lingering too long in the library, something he thought now in hindsight was rather unfair when the man was proving to be quite conversant and knowledgeable, if not a bit stuck in his anachronisms.

Thinking about Gaius took his feet in the direction of the physician’s rooms, and while simply dropping in to proudly display his borrowed literature might have been his intent in the past, Merlin had a feeling that he should approach the elder man with something a bit less alarming than so much presumed familiarity. He was also feeling a little guilty, truth be told, an emotion he hadn’t anticipated coming back to bother him once he’d bid farewell to the man the night before. It had been far too easy to lie to Gaius once he’d finally realized where his confessions had gone wrong, to twist his emotions around the words and promises that Merlin knew the man needed to hear. Swearing to protect and look after Arthur was easy enough, because it was the truest thing that Merlin had of his being, but Uther’s safety was not something he cared to give the same consideration. Merlin had been entertaining thoughts of killing Uther since before he’d even stepped through the portal, in ways that were horridly devious and couldn’t be traced back to magic, so making a promise that Uther would never die by his hand was an empty one at best. Though he could never reveal such a thing to Gaius, the guilt was tugging on him enough to swing his thoughts like a pendulum; they bounced between his own desire to see Uther dead and gone, and imagining how much Gaius would hate him if he murdered the King he was still faithfully loyal to.

It was tempting to simply be blunt and reveal every ugly truth of just how awful the future had turned out in the hopes of making Gaius realize just how dangerous it was to let Uther remain alive, but Merlin knew that completely revealing future events was out of the question. In their present circumstances the details of his actions would probably only serve to paint him in an even less favorable light, something he couldn’t afford to risk when Gaius had little enough reason to trust him as it was. Gaius was the only person in Camelot who could reveal his true identity, and while Merlin had no fear of a dungeon cell or remaining in captivity long enough to make it to the chopping block, the set-back from being ousted as a sorcerer would be troublesome. Luck or fate had landed him in the perfect position to stick close to Arthur and keep an eye on Uther and his court once again, and those were positions he intended to abuse to their fullest, even if he was experiencing a dilemma over how best to proceed.

Merlin arrived at the physician’s chambers only to find them empty, which was mildly disappointing but not entirely unexpected. The afternoon sunlight poured like molten gold through the room’s high windows and revealed all of Gaius’ workbenches in states of careful disarray, cluttered to their edges with stoppered bottles, open satchels of fragrant herbs, and leaning monuments of bound paper that had yet to make it back to the bookshelves. Merlin inhaled deeply as he entered the room and the rush of memory was so immediate and visceral that he had to shut his eyes for a moment, caught in some painful place between fond remembrance and yearning. He’d discovered the true meaning of his gifts between these walls, cradled light and transformed stone in his hands, wept, eaten, slept, fallen hard and been brought back to his feet. There was a saying that it was the people who made a home, but Merlin knew that here, this room, was the place he would always try to find again and again.

By the looks of things it seemed Gaius had only recently stepped out. Merlin noted the arrangements of cauldrons and unlit burners, forgotten pestles flaking onto the table, dried bundles prepared for soaking in oil, the open books and half-finished potions sitting beside them; all evidence of a man called away for a short time while in the middle of honing his craft. Merlin took a seat on one of the spare stools near the hearth, which was cold and full of ash, content to wait and soak in the room and its memories until Gaius returned.

Before a quarter hour passed Merlin had already gotten up to wander around the space, knobby fingers skimming across leather covers and unmarked jars, identified only by Gaius’ personal system of colored twine around the bottle necks and the depth of the cork pressed into the seal. He’d learned all of these by heart and had continued the same practice for his own collection of liniments and infusions (just one more thread in a long string that tumbled backwards through time into this room). Merlin peered at the texts Gaius was currently working on, sniffed some of the salves he did not immediately recognize, and noted with concern where the layer of dust abruptly ended in a clean line when his sleeve bumped a closed book out of place. By his second circuit around the room Merlin had an armful of empty bottles and beakers cradled against his chest, all of which went straight into the wash basin that was already half full of stained crockery that had been sitting there for who knows how long.

Merlin did glance around carefully before he conjured the tub full of sudsy hot water, but from there the work was entirely manual and, surprisingly, quite mind-numbingly pleasant. He abandoned his robes and pushed up his shirt sleeves over his elbows, and for a little while it was easy to pretend that he’d only woken that morning in the small adjoining room to the smell of Gaius’ partially burned porridge and had once again been left with the task of cleaning up while his mentor did his rounds through the lower town.

When the door rattled open later a small mountain of clean instruments sat on a cleared table in the corner and Merlin was standing at the top of the narrow staircase that led to Gaius’ personal library, working his way through shelving the stack of books tucked under his arm. Gaius paused on the threshold and stared in Merlin’s direction, his first look of bewilderment melting into one of wariness.

“Hello,” Merlin greeted, smiling as he shoved the last two books back into place on the shelf. He descended the staircase nimbly as Gaius entered the room and shut the door behind him.

“What were you… have you been cleaning?” Gaius asked in surprise.

Merlin nodded and shrugged. “I came by to visit but you’d gone out. I thought I would help out a bit.”

“I appreciate the thought but it was highly unnecessary,” Gaius admonished as he set his satchel down atop one of the empty benches, now free of dust and the parchment that had been near to tumbling off it earlier. Gaius surveyed the abundance of cleared surfaces with a hovering frown. “I doubt you realized I have a very precise system I use to-”

“Empty bottles arranged by their glass thickness, then size?” Merlin interjected, the corner of his mouth curling. “Earthen pots are stored under the cabinets, and books sorted by subject matter, region, then author. I think I managed alright.”

Gaius said nothing, but his frown deepened marginally. Merlin’s smile slipped and he rubbed the back of his neck self-consciously.

“It’s just… nothing I’m not used to,” he explained quietly.

“I see,” Gaius said. When Merlin glanced his way, the physician had turned to begin emptying out his bag. “Why did you say you were here again?”

“Just to… talk, I guess.” Merlin returned to the hearth to collect the books he’d left on the stone floor. “I borrowed some books from Geoffrey earlier, he was… talking to him was different than I expected. He knows his stuff, I’ll say that much.”

“Is he no longer overseeing the Hall of Records when you…” Gaius cut himself off with a pinched expression that Merlin couldn’t say he’d seen too many times on the other man’s face. “Perhaps I shouldn’t ask such things.”

“No it’s alright. I don’t… that is, I would like someone to talk to about it. You’re the only one here I can trust.”

“No one should know such things about the future,” Gaius warned tersely. “You’ve already given me one sleepless night knowing far too much than I should already. Best we leave it at that and speak of it no more.”

Merlin’s heart sank as he watched Gaius turned his attention to his beakers and lifted several tiny jars to shake their contents. He hugged his borrowed books to his chest, fingers digging into the stiff covers. “I’m sorry then. That I said too much. And for cleaning your room, I didn’t think… it wasn’t meant to make you upset. I promise you everything’s in the right place, I’ve filled your stores enough times to know where things go. I could probably even do it in my sleep. And Geoffrey’s fine, just so you know. I only meant I never talked to him much when I was living here, he didn’t really like having a kid underfoot looking through his things.”

Merlin was collecting himself to move his legs and leave the room, when he heard Gaius sigh loudly.

“No, I’m sorry. I’m being a terrible host. I’m afraid you’re going to take some getting used to. Can I offer you some tea?”

“Tea would be nice,” Merlin agreed. He placed his books on a clear corner of the table Gaius was working at and fisted his hands inside his sleeves. “I really did only mean to wait until you came back, but old habits die hard I guess. I don’t remember ever seeing this place look so… cluttered.”

“I may have been remiss in keeping my things in order,” Gaius conceded. He struck a piece of flint to get one of the smaller burners going and set an earthen kettle atop the iron ring braced over it. “Some bad wine got into the stores at one of the inns and I’ve been brewing potions to cure stomach cramps for two nights straight. There’s nothing more irritating than a bunch of grown men sobbing because their bowels have turned on them. You’d think they would be smart enough to tell bad wine from good, or at least stop drinking it once the first signs began to show.”

Merlin couldn’t help smiling a little. It was comforting to hear Gaius lambasting like always, even if two restless nights hardly explained the poorly kept state of the physician’s rooms. He chose to stay quiet on that subject. It seemed there were some things they weren’t quite ready to share yet.

“I’m sure they’ve learned their lesson,” Merlin surmised, taking a seat.

Gaius gave him a wry look of amused agreement, and Merlin couldn’t help grinning back. Gaius returned to sorting through his things and took the remaining potion vials out of his bag to place them in the empty wash basin, then came back again with his spectacles perched over his nose to peer at the open volumes Merlin had returned to their exact places after dusting the table underneath . Merlin watched his old mentor in silence while the kettle bubbled softly between them, and when the steam began to hiss and sputter Gaius brought two newly washed cups to the table and sprinkled identical measures of tea leaves into their bottoms. When Merlin accepted his tea Gaius lightly placed a weathered hand on his equally age spotted wrist, stilling him from pulling away.

“I _am_ grateful, Merlin. Though you are a mystery to me I can see your heart is in the right place. Thank you.”

Merlin warmed from the inside, no small feat when he hadn’t even taken a sip of the tea yet. He brought the cup to his lips to hide his smile behind the rim. “Have you ever thought of getting an assistant?”

*~*~*

Merlin returned to his rooms later in the afternoon feeling much less burdened by his own thoughts, a feeling he knew arose from the small but steady steps he and Gaius were taking toward becoming acquainted again. They hadn’t talked about the future, or rather no more than Merlin’s mouth sometimes let free without realizing it, but the conversation had flowed easily without much effort on either of their parts. It had been relaxing and comforting, and Merlin had cherished every moment of it.

It took a moment before Merlin was able to find an empty spot on the floor to deposit his newly borrowed books, but it was only after he’d done so that he realized he’d effectively blocked what little space was left for reaching his bed. With a low mutter about ridiculous bans on magic, Merlin left again to track down the castle carpenter.

On his way back from the artisan’s workshop Merlin made a stop at Arthur’s chambers, wondering if perhaps the Prince had finally returned from his training. But instead of Arthur he once again found the manservant, Johnson, whose face appeared as little more than one eye and a corner of his mouth as he peered at Merlin from the other side of the barely opened chamber door.

“No, sir. Prince Arthur is not here.”

“Well, will he be back soon?”

“I was to tell you he wouldn’t be available for the remainder of the day.”

Merlin frowned. “Then I’ll come back tomorrow.”

“I’ll let him know then. Goodbye sir.”

*~*~*

Three days later and with still no sign of the Prince, Merlin realized that he was being avoided.

“What am I supposed to do, Gaius?” Merlin lamented after barging into the physician’s chambers.

Gaius looked on in puzzlement as Merlin’s feet began pacing a familiar track in the floor between two workbenches. “Do about what, exactly?”

“It’s Arthur! He’s avoiding me like the plague. How am I supposed to teach him if he won’t show up for lessons?”

Gaius lifted one eyebrow in consideration behind his spectacles. “I’m afraid I don’t have an answer for that. Prince Arthur is allowed to make his own decisions, and perhaps in this matter he feels his education is unnecessary.”

“Oh, I doubt that,” Merlin snorted. “The only thing Arthur knows how to do properly is fight with a sword and check to see that the buttons on his coat are perfectly polished.”

“You can’t speak of the Prince like that, Merlin,” Gaius chastised.

Merlin sighed and took a seat on the bench on the opposite side of the table. “Yes, I know, you were always telling me that. Old habits and all.”

Gaius rolled his eyes to the ceiling, as if asking for patience from a higher power. “Tell me, were you really his manservant? You don’t strike me as the type to do well with forced servitude.”

Merlin ducked his head and studiously studied the tabletop, feeling slightly abashed. “It’s not that I don’t respect him, I do. Well, when he’s older at least. At least then he’s got the whole chivalry thing down, self-sacrificing and caring more for his people than his own hide. But he’s still a prat, then and now. Except now he’s shorter and isn’t showing respect to his elders.”

“You aren’t _really_ that much older than him, I imagine,” Gaius reminded him, peering into a swirling beaker of green liquid. “Prince Arthur will be fourteen at the end of the harvest season.”

Merlin rubbed his face with both hands and groaned behind his fingers. “That doesn’t help me. His manservant won’t tell me anything useful, Arthur’s always gone from his chambers when I get there, they won’t let me into the council room and the guards always run me off when I try to wait around. I never had this much trouble finding him when I was his servant, and usually _he_ was trying to find _me_. Is there anything I can do?”

“If you’re that determined to catch the Prince, why are you sticking to conventional means?” Gaius asked, setting his latest potion down on the table. “Arthur has been following the same schedule for several years, and is often in the same few places day after day. Uther has been very clear about Arthur’s responsibilities and he is under strict training to become a knight. I don’t imagine that seeking him out at those times will be very difficult at all.”

“Hmm, I suppose,” Merlin conceded. “Are you sure I can’t go to Uther about this?”

Gaius shot him a doubtful look, and Merlin sighed. “Yes, yes I know. Northwest tower, humiliation, hates scholars and sorcerers alike. Complete waste of my time. Well then.”

Merlin rose from his seat and planted his fist on his hips. “I guess I’ll just have to deal with Arthur myself. He needs to learn that no one says no to Merlin. He’ll get a first rate education even if I have to drag him off the training field myself.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of,” Gaius muttered as Merlin left the room.

*~*~*

Merlin’s poorly thought-through plan went into action the next morning. He bypassed Arthur’s chambers entirely and headed straight for the practice fields on the southern grounds of the castle. It looked much the same as it had in the future, with cordoned off areas for sword fighting, targets set up for archery, and a fallowed field for jousting practice. There were knights of various ages in the midst of training, some with faces that Merlin didn’t recognize, others looking many years younger than when Merlin had last seen them. The sight was a bit surreal, especially with the lack of Arthur’s familiar broad frame dominating the field and putting his knights through their paces. Merlin had memories of hours spent standing off on the sidelines, watching Arthur practice when he was free from other duties, sometimes even stopping by on his way to the laundry or a trip to the lower town. Arthur had never chased him off if he spotted him loitering by the fence, though he did reprimand Merlin for his laziness even as he accepted a water skin and shoved his sword and gauntlets into Merlin’s waiting arms.

Merlin spotted Arthur easily among the knights. He was noticeably the shortest figure in their ranks and was currently sparring with an armored man over a head taller than the boy. Even at such a young age, Arthur seemed able to hold his own and was pressing the other knight back with sure, even steps and quick strokes of his sword. The sparring continued for several minutes until Arthur overcompensated and swung out too far, which got him a slap on his flank with the flat of the other knight’s blade. Then the other knight was pushing Arthur back, swinging hard and with powerful thrusts that quickly overwhelmed Arthur’s defenses, and the limp in his left leg became noticeable as he hopped back to put weight on his unhurt foot. Arthur was disarmed quickly shortly after and gave a stiff bow to the older knight for a fight well played. From his position at the edge of the field Merlin could see that Arthur was breathing hard by the rise and fall of his shoulders.

Practice continued for the better part of the morning and Merlin passed the time by striking up conversations with any of the squires that happened to be nearby. By the end of training he had a small group of the younger men clustered around him, who all seemed fascinated by Merlin’s willingness to speak openly to them and divulge embarrassing stories of mishaps during other knights’ practices that he had witnessed. None of them realized they were laughing at tales of their Prince and the very knights they were serving, and Merlin figured there was no harm in revealing events of the future in such a roundabout fashion.

When the knights began dispersing and barking for the boys to follow them, they left Merlin with reluctant waves and trotted off after their masters. Arthur was nowhere in sight at first until Merlin spotted him a short way off, alone and swinging a sword at a straw practice dummy. He made his way over.

“You, stop there!” Merlin turned at the sound of the booming voice when he was a few yards from the Prince. A large man suited in half-armor was standing by and had a hand on his sword pommel. The dark look he was giving Merlin was as much a warning as his tone had been. “What business do you have with his highness?”

Before Merlin could open his mouth another voice cut through. “Oh come off, Belvidere. You saw him standing there just as long as everyone else. If he was going to kill me he would have done it hours ago.”

“Yes, sire,” Sir Belvidere replied dutifully, but remained glaring at Merlin.

Merlin watched Arthur stab his sword into the grassy turf and wipe a layer of sweat off his brow. His blond hair was dark and matted against his forehead and his face was rounder and younger than Merlin remembered. Had they been standing toe-to-toe he would probably only stand as tall as Merlin’s chest. His shoulders and waist were still narrow and undeveloped, showing none of the muscle that he would acquire in the coming years. But Arthur’s blue eyes and slender nose were the same, and the shape of his lips and ears were almost as familiar as Merlin’s own. Merlin was surprised by the wave of nostalgia that hit him as he stared at the young Prince.

Arthur approached Merlin with a frown on his face. “You’re that clown that my father tried to saddle me with. My tutor, was it?”

Merlin frowned back at the insult. “Yes, as a matter of fact. Your tutor, not the clown bit. And you’ve been remiss in your lessons. I’ve come to collect you, sire.”

Arthur’s eyes widened a little, no doubt surprised by Merlin’s tone. “Collect me? What makes you think that I will be going anywhere with you? I have other duties to attend to, and they don’t include listening to you prattle on about language and philosophy and whatever else it is you think you know. You’re free to leave Camelot whenever you wish, I have no need of you.”

“King Uther thinks you need an education,” Merlin insisted, following Arthur as he walked away across the practice field. “And he’s right. There’s more to life than beating people with a sword and mace and learning the proper way to hold a shield. There’s a lot to know about the world that you can’t see from inside Camelot’s walls.”

“And you would be the _expert_ on this, I assume?” Arthur sneered, peeling off his gloves and vambraces and dumping them in a crate containing other pieces of armor. “Your books claim they spout the truth, that they can tell a man about the law and the proper way to think. Books written by men who have never seen war, never witnessed death except in their own minds, who think somehow that they know better than everyone else. Tell me, Emrys, have you ever held a sword in your life? Have you ever fought against an opponent bent on your death, ever faced an enemy soldier prepared to cut you down where you stand or stood on a battlefield against an army sworn to destroy your homeland? Have you?”

“I have,” Merlin answered gravely and without hesitation, and was rewarded with Arthur swinging around to face him. He looked startled, which rapidly smoothed into a look of suspicion. Merlin only stared back solemnly. He was quite willing to make it clear that he wasn’t going to allow an upstart Prince to cow him, and Arthur shifted and looked away after a moment.

“Perhaps you are not entirely useless after all, then,” Arthur sniffed as a small concession.

Merlin let it slide. “Please, sire. An hour or two of your day, that’s all I ask.”

“No,” Arthur said obstinately.

“I will take this matter to the King, if I have to.”

“My father?” Arthur laughed incredulously. “You really think my father will listen to you? He sent you to the _northwest_ tower. How’s that working out for you, Emrys?”

Merlin tried not to glower, but it had been worth a try. “Quite well, actually. You’re welcome to visit and stay for a lesson or two.”

“I can think of better ways to waste my time,” Arthur said flippantly, turning to head back to the castle.

Merlin had a feeling he was about to stick his foot in his mouth, but Arthur’s attitude had finally begun to truly make him angry. “Like tripping around on a field when your injury isn’t even fully healed yet?”

Arthur stiffened and spun around furiously. “I could have you flogged for your tone. Remember your place!”

“Tutor to the royal brat, you mean then, sire?”

And maybe that had been going a step too far, because Merlin had never seen Arthur’s face turn quite that shade of purple before.

*~*~*

“Merlin, what have you gotten yourself into?”

Merlin looked up reluctantly from his spot on the straw-strewn cell floor. Gaius stood with his arms crossed on the opposite side of the bars, a deep frown on his face. Merlin fidgeted under the scrutiny and looked away. “I didn’t say anything but the truth. I’m not the one with the temper that abuses their royal powers and throws innocent people into dungeons.”

Gaius sighed loudly. “Merlin, this was _not_ what I had in mind when I told you to be more creative.”

“I know, I’m sorry. I just… I probably shouldn’t have let my mouth run away from me.” Merlin _was_ genuinely sorry that he’d gotten himself thrown into the dungeons, but he couldn’t allow himself to regret a word he’d said to Arthur. The Prince had always needed to be brought down a peg or two, and no one had ever seemed willing to step up to the task except for Merlin. He supposed he was just getting an early start this time around.

“Has the King heard of this yet?” Gaius asked, sounding worried for the first time.

“Erm, yeah…” Merlin admitted, remembering the visit quite vividly. “He stopped by down here about an hour ago. Took one look at me and started laughing. I get the feeling I’m not the first tutor Arthur’s had thrown in a cell?”

“You should be fortunate that Uther still finds this amusing. He will not suffer your foolish behavior if you make this a habit. Now come on, I’ve told the quartermaster that I need your help with a medical treatment and he’s agreed to release you.”

“Thanks, Gaius,” Merlin sighed gratefully, standing as a guard approached to unlock the cell door. “I promise you this will be the last time you catch me in one of these.”

Gaius raised one eyebrow skeptically. “Yes. Well. We’ll see, won’t we?”

*~*~*

Merlin had never been fond of being an early riser (that honor was solely for Arthur), but times were calling for more drastic measures. After applying his disguise, Merlin ventured downstairs to wait outside of the castle kitchens, familiar enough with the routine and bustle of the early morning to keep out of the way and maintain a lookout. Shortly after dawn, Arthur’s manservant came shuffling down the corridor’s narrow steps, and Merlin reminded himself again that he wasn’t going to feel bad about this. At all.

The elderly man went sprawling two steps from the bottom and landed hard on the stone floor, letting out a pained groan from the impact. Merlin hurried forward.

“Oh my! Are you alright? That was a nasty spill, here, can you stand? Take my hand.”

The servant accepted Merlin’s help and stood shakily. He was pale and had broken out in a cold sweat from the shock of the accident. “Is anything hurt?” Merlin asked, gripping the man’s forearm and looking him over for injuries.

“My knee, sir. I may have-” the man broke off in a hiss of pain, tipping to the side.

“Come on, we’ll get you to Gaius. He’ll patch you up.”

“I, I can’t. The Prince… I must attend to him…”

“It’s alright,” Merlin soothed, already leading the limping man out of the corridor and toward the direction of Gaius’ chambers. The physician was not going to be happy being awoken so early in the morning. “I would be more than happy to assist. You were planning to bring Prince Arthur his breakfast?”

“Y-yes, sir. But his highness needs-”

“I’m sure I’ll manage just fine,” Merlin hastened to reassure him, now walking them down the hallway outside of Gaius’ quarters. “I was once a manservant to a lord, many years ago. I’m sure it can’t be all that different.”

“Oh, thank you, sir,” the man wheezed as they entered the physician’s rooms.

Fortunately Gaius was already awake, but still dressed in his nightshift and bent over a pot of bubbling porridge in the fireplace. His surprised gaze landed on Merlin first, then quickly shifted to the elderly man hobbling alongside him. “What happened?” he demanded, sweeping forward to assist them into the room.

“Took a slip down some stairs, saw it happen,” Merlin explained quickly. He wanted to get out of there before Gaius had a chance to grow suspicious.

Not fast enough it seemed, as Gaius’ hard gaze swerved around to land on Merlin. “I see. And you were nearby to help.”

“Yes, fortunate that. But now I must be going, someone needs to bring Prince Arthur his breakfast. You’re in capable hands old chap!”

Merlin fled back to the kitchens and collected a generous breakfast for the Prince, even including a few items he knew that Arthur liked but made a point not to indulge in too often. It all felt ridiculously sentimental of him, but if Arthur was going to abuse his powers for evil then Merlin had to be willing to do the same. Even if that meant manipulation through the boy’s stomach.

By some stroke of luck, Arthur was still sleeping when Merlin entered his rooms a short time later. He seemed utterly dwarfed by the large canopied bed, just a small lump and a tuft of blond hair poking above the sheets from Merlin’s view in the antechamber. Merlin set out the breakfast dishes as noisily as possible.

Arthur awoke with a jerk, sitting straight up in bed, hair sticking up ridiculously around his ears as he hunted for the source of the noise. When his gaze landed on Merlin he scowled fiercely. “What are you doing here?” he growled, swinging off the high mattress.

“Breakfast, sire,” Merlin informed him, smiling pleasantly. “I hope it’s to your liking.”

“Where’s Johnson?” Arthur demanded, folding his arms with a glare that Merlin knew would actually work in a few years to make him quake a little in his shoes. Presently, it just made Arthur look like a rumpled cat.

“Had an accident this morning I’m afraid, the poor bloke. Fell down a few steps. Gaius is tending to him and since I was nearby I offered to fetch your breakfast. You should really think about finding another manservant, he doesn’t seem like the sort to keep his feet in a strong wind.”

“I demand that you leave at once.”

“Come, come,” Merlin cajoled. He sat down at the wide table and pulled one of the plates closer to himself. “I thought we might have a nice morning chat. Discuss your studies. Things like that.”

One of Arthur’s eyes twitched as Merlin plucked a grape free and ate it. “You can’t do that. That’s _my_ breakfast!”

“There’s plenty to go around. You didn’t think I brought all of this for you, did you?” Merlin asked with a chuckle, snapping a few more grapes free from the bunch.

Arthur huffed and threw himself into a chair on the opposite side of the table. He reached for a plate (the one with his favorites, Merlin noted), and tore into the food. He ate a few vicious bites with forced gusto, as if that were somehow an act of defiance, before fixing Merlin with an unhappy scowl. “I see you managed to escape from the dungeons.”

“Released, actually. Those cells are uncomfortable but we managed to have a good laugh about it, the only upside I suppose…”

Arthur’s eyes widened. “They _what_?”

Merlin blinked, not expecting the outburst. It took a moment before he winced, realizing his mouth had run away with him again. “I meant, your father, the King. He came down to see what the fuss was about. He… well he started laughing. I’m not surprised I got released shortly after that.”

Arthur’s expression darkened and he looked down at his plate, frowning at the bitten ends of sausage and torn sweet rolls. Merlin, knowing from years of experience that this was a sensitive topic, wisely chose to stay quiet. He continued to nibble on the plum he’d already started eating and pretended to look around the room with curiosity.

Arthur spent a silent moment poking at his food before stabbing a piece of meat and eating it stiffly, shoulders hunched and looking no farther than his plate of food. Merlin couldn’t help feeling a bit sorry for him, living under the shadow of his father and yet openly ridiculed for his decisions when they merely reflected the attitude that he’d grown up being taught to model. Arthur had so much to learn that Uther couldn’t give him, tolerance and kindness and compassion for the average citizen and their everyday plights, things that Merlin had seen in him as an adult that, even then, had difficultly emerging beyond the snobbish exterior. This spoiled version of Arthur hadn’t even learned yet that respect was something to be earned, not given along with a title – that knee-jerk reactions would only hinder his subjects’ ability to take him seriously. Merlin was beginning to get the feeling that they had a lot of work to do.

They continued eating breakfast in silence for several more minutes and when Merlin had finished consuming his fill of the fruit that Arthur had left mostly untouched (as he’d known he would), he drew out two books he’d kept in the pocket of his robe. Arthur, seeing Merlin place them on the table, scowled and pointedly continued eating the remainder of his breakfast.

“I was thinking we might start out simple, establish your level of education first. I’d like to know what languages you’ve studied, what books you’ve read, your level of arithmetic, your knowledge of the classics, and so on. You have been taught to read and speak Latin, I assume?”

Arthur dropped his fork and pushed off from the table. “I’m not having this conversation.”

Merlin’s fingers twitched, overcome with the urge to grab Arthur by his nightshirt and give him a good shake. “You can’t keep avoiding the matter, sire. You might think it will deter me, but I’m not going anywhere.”

Arthur had approached his wardrobe and was pulling out a set of clean clothes from its depths. He draped a pair of trousers and a shirt over his arm before turning to give Merlin an unsettling smirk. “It seems to have worked out well so far.”

“You can’t lock me up in the dungeons every time I get on your nerves,” Merlin called after the boy as he disappeared behind his privacy screen.

Arthur’s pale nightshirt was flung over the top of the frame. “If you’re so keen on helping me, Emrys, you can attend to me while Johnson is infirmed. I’ll need my boots polished, my hearth swept out, my laundry folded, my practice sword sharpened, my sheets need changing, and take those plates with you back to the kitchens while you’re-”

Merlin almost couldn’t flee the room fast enough. He settled against the door outside Arthur’s chambers and thumped his head against the surface with a groan. That had all hit a little too close to home and the last thing he wanted to do was take up his old position in Arthur’s household. He’d scarcely survived two years of it as it was and the memories of hours of bruising labor were not his favorites. At least he could have said, once upon a time, that the friendship he’d developed with Arthur had made it somewhat tolerable – on the good days when Arthur wasn’t being a prat or in a terrible mood. Merlin had learned to put up with a lot from Arthur, but this was beginning to be a bit much.

He was going to have to get craftier from here on out. Merlin pushed off from the door and went in search of the quartermaster.

*~*~*

The door to Merlin’s room opened with an impressive bang. Merlin jumped from the noise and looked up in surprise, sparing a moment to be grateful that he’d only been making notes on one of the books he’d borrowed from Geoffrey and not performing magic in broad daylight. And then he realized that it was a panting, harried, and pissed off Arthur standing in his doorway.

“You!” Arthur shouted, pointing a finger in Merlin’s direction. “You told the knights I was… that I… what in god’s name is _syphilis_ anyway!”

“Nothing serious,” Merlin insisted, coughing awkwardly cover up the bark of laughter that wanted to escape. He had a bad feeling he was doing a poor job at keeping a straight face, however. “But since you’re already here, how about taking a seat? I’ve heard your morning practice has been postponed for the next few days, and no doubt you have a few hours free. I’m sure there’s a book in here somewhere that has information on syphilis, if you’d like to research the topic?”

Arthur, angry and flushed to his ears, colored even further. “No!” he snapped, and shut the door behind him with enough force to rattle a few of the shutters.

Merlin frowned in confusion. Well, that hadn’t gone to plan at all.

*~*~*

Merlin supposed he really shouldn’t have put it past Arthur to retaliate somehow.

“Those are my clothes, aren’t they?” Merlin said to Gaius, who stood with him atop the wall overlooking the practice field.

Several of the training dummies had been outfitted with a number of familiar shirts and one particularly favorite jacket, and some rather childish and anatomically incorrect faces had been painted on each of them in vivid colors. Merlin narrowed his eyes at the one Arthur was taking particular delight in hacking to pieces, sure that he saw a pair of oversized ears attached to the bucket being used in place of a head. But it was hard to be sure from a distance.

Gaius chuckled aloud. “I think that one’s supposed to be you, Merlin,” he remarked, nodding toward the aforementioned dummy.

Merlin wished very hard for enough rain to flood the practice field, but it never came.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Better a little late than never? [](http://www.livejournal.com/users/dria_uesugi/profile)[**dria_uesugi**](http://www.livejournal.com/users/dria_uesugi/) did an excellent job with what I gave her, but of course I had to go and mess with it some more, sorry :)

Merlin had a feeling that things were getting terribly out of hand between he and Arthur. Johnson was cleared to return to work a few days after the accident and had warmed up considerably toward Merlin since, now happy to provide him with useful details about the Prince’s daily activities. Armed with this new inside source of information, Merlin abused his influence with the stableboys to make sure Arthur’s favorite saddle went missing for repairs when he wanted to ride out hunting, or sweet-talked the cooks in the kitchens so that his meals came up decorated with little notes identifying each kind of food in Latin. Johnson was even hospitable enough to allow Merlin to leave books he thought might be interesting reading material for Arthur in his chambers while the Prince was out, but nothing seemed to work to bring the boy around and take his studies more seriously.

Arthur was stubborn and immature but frightfully ingenious, Merlin soon discovered. He was forced to begin locking his door with magic after he found his entire collection of Greek philosophy strewn out across Camelot’s highest parapet, and the meticulousness that showed made Merlin glad he’d cast a glamour on his spell books to show nothing but blank pages to the curious observer. After that was the embarrassing incident of finding a gangly youth barely out of boyhood lounging on the steps to his chamber one evening, who was under the mistaken impression that Merlin was prepared to pay generously for the services of a young, flexible bedwarmer. Only a few days later he happened to overhear, entirely by accident, Arthur complaining to another knight that Merlin had somehow thwarted his plans to see his tutor run off for good. It had involved a forged notice that the tower was to be sealed off due to an infestation, which Merlin was meant to be presented with once he discovered that the locks on his door were changed without his knowledge. Merlin was using magic to come in and out of his room so often that he hadn’t even noticed the switch, which once again was a victory he couldn’t take credit for unless he wanted to lose his head on the chopping block.

Merlin also began taking tea in Gaius’ rooms in the evenings, mainly to vent about spoiled princes but also to find some refuge from whatever trap lay in wait thanks to Arthur’s continuing attempts to drive him out of Camelot. It was going on the second week since he’d been appointed the task of tutoring the Prince but they’d yet to speak face-to-face again since Merlin’s last disastrous attempt with Arthur’s breakfast. It was a miracle they hadn’t come to blows the few times they’d passed each other in the castle hallways, and he said as much to Gaius while the physician poured him a third cup of tea.

“Really, Merlin. Out of the two of you, I’m having a hard time figuring out which one is the adult.”

“The all-powerful wizard, of course,” Merlin answered glumly, though the words were somewhat distorted by the first propped against his cheek. He was certain he looked the perfect image of a man at the end of his rope, half-slumped across the table and hair a wild nest of agitated finger combing. It was the same position he’d fallen into after sitting down and Gaius had humored him thus far by providing a never-ending stream of hot tea from the kettle at the opposite end of the table. The drink was well and good but Merlin was starting to wish for something stronger, though whether he could get away with turning his water into wine without Gaius noticing was another thing entirely.

“These childish games aren’t going to get you anywhere. You might look the part of someone who’s had forty years of life experience behind them but your actions are speaking for themselves. Uther won’t turn a blind eye to this forever, you know.”

“You think so?” Merlin asked, squinting at Gaius through the eye above his fist.

Gaius set the kettle down and crossed his arms. “I didn’t mean that in a way that might be beneficial for you. Uther loves his son and if Arthur were inclined to he could raise charges against you that could easily have you exiled from Camelot. I daresay I’m surprised he hasn’t already.”

“Yeah, I wonder,” Merlin agreed absently.

“Merlin,” Gaius sighed. “I think you’re missing the point.”

Merlin frowned and picked at a groove in the tabletop. “That Arthur is a hopeless case and I’m an idiot for even bothering to try and change the future?”

“No. The point is that you’ve committed yourself to playing the part of a man who should know better, and yet you’re behaving like a stubborn child. There are other methods to getting your way that doesn’t involve silly pranks and orchestrating accidents in your favor – don’t think I don’t know what you did to that poor servant. You’re lucky he suffered nothing worse than a bruised kneecap.”

“He wasn’t in any real danger,” Merlin argued, pouting. “I know the difference between killing a man and giving him a sprained ankle.”

Gaius frowned and took a sip of his tea before he spoke again. “Be that as it may, I would advise against doing anything like that in the castle again. The danger is too great and you’re still far too comfortable with casting magic out in the open. You must learn to be more cautious. And besides, you should be _above_ resorting to such trickery. Use what mortal powers you have at your disposal and use it with the brain I know is knocking about in there somewhere.”

“You’re nearly as bad as the dragon,” Merlin sulked, but truthfully he was starting to feel a bit less pessimistic about the situation. Now he just needed to pee terribly.

“I’m… the _what_?”

*~*~*

After Merlin finished explaining to Gaius about the frequent visits he’d once made to the dragon that Uther kept locked up under the castle (Gaius knew of it, and voiced his concerns for the dragon’s personal motives, but Merlin figured what was done was done), it didn’t seem like a bad idea to pay the Great Dragon a visit. Why Merlin had heard nothing from the creature since his arrival was a mystery, since he’d been in Camelot for less than a day the first time around before the dragon had begun calling for him. Though he’d never enjoyed the cryptic conversations or the dragon’s habit of speaking in riddles, meeting him equal footing and saying a few choice words about so-called destiny was too appealing to pass up.

The cavern was cold and dark when he arrived and Merlin let the spell of obscurity wrapped around him fall away as he stepped out onto the ledge. Let it never be said that he hadn’t learned a thing or two about subterfuge over the years, or how much easier it was to pass by someone when they saw nothing but a shadow drifting over the wall. Honestly what had he been thinking, leaving a trail of sleeping guards like breadcrumbs straight to him? Gaius was right to wonder why he’d never been caught using magic sooner.

Merlin held his hand out and silently called up a blue orb into his palm, letting it grow in size until the pale light had brightened enough to illuminate the rock wall on the far side of the cavern. From his vantage point he could discern the shape of a heavy chain extending upward from the rocky outcropping the dragon favored as a perch, but the beast itself was nowhere in sight.

“Hello?” Merlin called. His voice echoed several times over through the cave and he could hear the distant roar of moving water somewhere far, far below. “Dragon I know you’re here. I’ve come to talk!”

There was no answer. Merlin paced along the edge of the rock for several minutes, peering down into the cavernous depths and then looking above, but the dragon failed to make an appearance. It was strange to be the one making the summons and getting no reply, and Merlin was debating on what sort of spell might work best to get the creature’s attention when he finally heard it. A faint, deep rumble barely audible over the sound of flowing water that seemed to be coming from somewhere high above. It sounded like a snore.

Merlin let the light in his hand wink out with a sigh. Apparently he’d arrived a few years too early.

*~*~*

With only Gaius’ unfailing wisdom to guide him, Merlin ceased all efforts to bully Arthur into his studies. It seemed prudent to turn his focus for fixing the problem elsewhere, and Merlin didn’t relish the thought of being exiled from Camelot on charges of pissing off a Prince to his breaking point. Arthur seemed to be aware of the sudden truce that he’d had no hand in creating, and Merlin caught himself on the receiving end of a few suspicious stares from across a room or out on the training field when he happened to be walking by. But even stranger still, Arthur made no move to redouble his efforts to make Merlin’s life miserable, and for the first time they were caught in an uneasy stalemate. Merlin suspected that the Prince was merely assessing his enemy and waiting for an opportune moment to strike. While Merlin, on the other hand, had decided on a new plan of attack. One that involved Uther Pendragon.

Gaining privileged information, like where Uther might be at certain times of the day, whether he would be alone or flanked by a garrison of overprotective guards, was not easy to come by in Camelot. Gaius had been largely unhelpful when he had told Merlin that, outside of matters that were dealt with in the public audience chamber, he hardly ever saw Uther unless the King sought him out personally. Which was rare. Uther did not attend practice on the training fields, he took his meals alone or with only his son and his recently adopted ward, Morgana, for company, and the open floor he held for judging disputes among his subjects was not a place where Merlin felt it would be appropriate to speak with the King. He couldn’t very well go accusing Arthur of being a spoiled brat, even if no court could prove him wrong.

Merlin knew that in the end he had only one resource to fall on, but there was something about the idea of attaching his magic to Uther Pendragon that he couldn’t help finding repulsive. He’d saved the man’s life once and then indirectly several other times but this wasn’t a matter of life or death, simply of convenience. He wasn’t sure whether to be humbled or disappointed that Camelot’s staff didn’t appear more open to revealing the King’s whereabouts, even with a little coin involved, but after days of no luck and his ideas running dry Merlin gave in and placed the tracking spell on Uther.

Fortunately it paid off a few days later. Merlin had tied the locating spell to a crude map he’d created of the castle done mostly from memory, with a tiny bronze crown moving around the parchment in a mirror image of Uther’s day-to-day activities. That afternoon Uther had apparently decided to pay a visit to Geoffrey in the castle library, and with all due haste Merlin grabbed a few books he had out on loan and took off running.

There were low voices speaking toward the back of the room when Merlin arrived, still out of breath from his sprint from the tower, and he made an effort to flatten his hair and robes before he was noticed.

Geoffrey spotted him first as Merlin shuffled along the edge of the bookshelves, trying to look nonchalant and uninterested in the two individuals speaking just out of earshot. “Ah, Emrys! I did not hear you come in,” the librarian greeted.

“Hello Geoffrey, your highness,” Merlin said, coming out from behind one of the stacks and bowing low to Uther.

“Emrys,” Uther repeated, brow wrinkling as he tried to place Merlin’s face. “You are…”

“Prince Arthur’s tutor, sire,” Merlin finished helpfully.

“Emrys has quite an interest in history, my lord,” Geoffrey piped in, apparently delighted by the inclusion of Merlin in his haven of academia. “We have spent many hours discussing all manner of texts and ancient documents. His knowledge is quite extensive.”

“I see…” Uther said. The boredom leaking from his tone was almost palatable and Merlin had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from rolling his eyes.

“My lord, your libraries are unlike anything I’ve seen before,” Merlin added, beaming uncomfortably. “You must be a proud patron to have gathered so many rare volumes in one place. I daresay I could spend my life in here and not hope to read every word.”

“Indeed,” Geoffrey agreed with a benevolent sigh. “We are lucky to have your generosity, sire.”

Uther cleared his throat. “Yes, well. Any wise king will come to learn that a book can be worth its weight in gold.”

Sensing his opening, Merlin stepped closer to the pair. “I am happy to hear you say so, my lord. I only hope that I may also one day teach that same value of the printed word to Prince Arthur.”

“Well said, Emrys. And how are Arthur’s studies progressing?” the King asked genially.

It was an effort to keep a straight face at the question. “As well as can be expected, highness. However…”

“However?” Uther prompted, looking a bit more interested in the conversation.

“It isn’t my place to say, sire. Your son is a bright young man. It is all someone in my position could ask for.”

Uther crossed his arms, looking more annoyed than curious. “Come now. You have something to say about my son, I suggest you speak it.”

Merlin shifted on his feet, dipping his head respectfully. Geoffrey was also leaning in curiously, probably hoping to hear some worthwhile castle gossip, and as an afterthought Merlin placed the two books he’d brought with him as alibi material on a nearby stack. The historian frowned and pushed around Merlin to snatch up the books and return them to their proper place on the opposite side of the library. As his footsteps retreated Merlin glanced up and met the King’s stern gaze with what he hoped was a generous amount of humility.

“Sire,” Merlin began, spreading his hands. “To be honest, I fear for your son’s future.”

Uther’s brief, startled look at the admission immediately shifted to suspicion. “Explain.”

“Prince Arthur is growing up to be a model warrior. He is an excellent fighter, well versed in many styles of combat, and I have no doubt that he will one day become the strongest knight in all of Camelot. But he is distracted, sire, by these very same lessons. I fear that he has already fallen behind what is expected for a prince his age. He will suffer for this in the future.”

“Nonsense,” Uther said, waving an arm dismissively. “Arthur has no need of a… a scholar’s education. I would not ask my son to fill his head with anything that would keep him from training for his knighthood.”

“I’m afraid times are changing, my lord,” Merlin cautioned. “Many noble households are beginning to realize that diplomacy, as well as the strength of their armies, gives them the greatest advantage. They are educating their sons to a degree far more advanced than simple finances or reading treaties. They are learning to harness the knowledge of a world outside of Albion. I have witnessed it myself on my travels, sire. The world is changing outside of Camelot.”

Uther was finally beginning to look interested in the advice Merlin was giving him. “And you believe that Arthur would benefit from this form of instruction?”

“Most certainly, sire,” Merlin said, speaking the truth. “Your son has the potential for greatness, not just as a warrior but as a diplomat, a man well-suited for our modern era. You yourself have established Camelot on the principals of peace, shunning the barbarianism of our predecessors, the senseless wars. I’m sure that you are no stranger to the strength a quill can wield against the power of a sword, my lord.”

“You speak the truth, Emrys.” Uther clapped Merlin hard on the shoulder, forcing his knees to nearly buckle under the decisive gesture. “I may have been… remiss in enforcing Arthur’s studies. You must rectify Arthur’s education immediately.”

“Yes, sire,” Merlin replied dutifully, bowing his head again. It was to hide his grin of triumph as much as it was to maintain his show of modesty. “It would be my pleasure.”

Uther nodded once in acknowledgement and Merlin bowed again as the King turned to leave the library. Once he was gone, Merlin dodged any effort Geoffrey made to drag him into conversation and had to reign in the urge to skip out of the room as he headed straight for Gaius’ chambers.

“Gaius you won’t believe it, it worked!” Merlin announced as he walked into the physician’s quarters.

Merlin stopped just inside the threshold as two pairs of eyes turned to fix on him in surprise. Merlin blinked back in a similar fashion, momentarily thrown by the appearance of the woman, no… girl, sitting next to Gaius. He cleared his throat awkwardly. “Erm, sorry. I didn’t know you had a patient.”

“Give me a moment, my dear,” Gaius said gently, patting the pale hand of his visitor. A much younger version of Morgana nodded as Gaius rose to approach Merlin. Merlin watched her large, green eyes settle on him in curiosity, and when their gazes met he couldn’t help shuffling awkwardly under that open, innocent gaze. She looked so young and fragile, long black hair held back by a silver clip and tumbling loose nearly to her waist, clad in a dress of green velvet that only hinted at the curves of her womanhood. She was a far cry from the insane woman he’d left screaming at his back only a few weeks ago and seemed to bear little resemblance to the proud courtier he’d first met, whose haunted eyes had begged Merlin for answers at every turn. This child was demure, lonely, and Merlin wondered just how long it had been since she’d lost her father.

Merlin cast one last glance at the young woman as he and Gaius moved out of earshot. “How long ago did Morgana come here?” he asked softly.

Gaius blinked in surprise at the question, as if he’d forgotten Merlin’s knowledge of such things. “Almost two years ago,” he said after a moment. “She has not been sleeping well this past month.”

“The nightmares, yeah,” Merlin agreed, nodding. “Have her visions started, then?”

Judging by Gaius’ startled expression, he was not aware of their true nature at this point. “Are you sure?”

Merlin sighed and nodded. “Yes. They’ll only get worse as she gets older. She was taking sleeping draughts nearly every night when I came to Camelot. I know you don’t want to upset her Gaius but you really ought to tell her what’s going on. She was scared and confused and she didn’t know what was happening to her. Living as Uther’s ward and having magic is really tough but she deserves to know the truth. She’ll hate everyone who keeps it a secret from her a lot less in the long run. Trust me.”

Gaius frowned in consideration as he took in Merlin’s words. “I will think on it,” the physician said at length. “Now, what was it that you wanted to tell me?”

Merlin’s face split into a grin. “I did it! I talked to Uther, and he’s agreed to make Arthur take his lessons more seriously. You were absolutely right, Gaius. It worked like a charm.”

Gaius did smile at the news. “Well, I’m glad to hear that you’ve managed to work things out. And not by resorting to childish tricks, either. How exactly did you do it?”

“That was the easy part.” Merlin rocked back on his heels, eyes twinkling. “I just acted like you.”

*~*~*

The next day brought a few unexpected but not unwelcome surprises. The bookshelves Merlin had commissioned began arriving in the morning, transported up several flights of stairs and through even more castle corridors by two strapping lads that were barely panting by the time they brought the last one into Merlin’s room. Merlin rewarded them a silver penny each for their hard work, realizing only too late that he’d probably damned himself to a month’s worth of gossip in the lower town by the awestruck looks on the boys’ faces. He sometimes forgot how precious coin was when acquiring clean clothes, warm food, and sharpened swords could be done as easily as whispering a few words.

Merlin spent the remainder of the morning and the early afternoon trying to settle on a system of categorization (by author, subject matter, or title?), but so far the books had spent more time off the bookcases than on them. Not by any choice of theirs, however; their latent free will seemed to overtake them at the worst moments and Merlin had caught more than one book attempting to fling itself onto the shelves without any thought to order or organization. It was turning into more of a battle than anything, as Merlin continued to bat the books away with his hands and feet each time any of them got brave and decided to have a go, which always seemed to encourage the others like a pack of lemmings.

He was debating on just using magic to clean up the whole sorry mess when he heard a quiet knock on his door. Merlin shot a reproachful look at another book that was inching its way across the floor. “Behave,” he hissed, getting up to move to the other side of the room.

Archimedes, who was dozing on a perch that Merlin had fashioned out of a sturdy branch he’d dragged in from the castle grounds and a heavy pedestal, chirruped quietly as Merlin passed and ruffled his feathers. Merlin stopped a moment to stroke a hand down the tawny owl’s flank before continuing to the door, which was being tapped upon again, louder.

“Yes?” Merlin asked, answering the knock. He blinked in surprise. “Oh, sire!”

Arthur, dressed in a burgundy tunic and leather jacket that looked like a miniature version of the hunting gear he wore as an adult, stood scowling on the other side. “My father sent me.”

Though the Prince didn’t offer anything further Merlin opened the door wider and ushered him inside. He fought back a smile as he shut the door again behind him. “Oh, I see. It’s good the King is taking an interest in your education, isn’t it?”

“I’m sure you had something to do with it,” Arthur grumbled under his breath. He folded his arms and stood awkwardly just inside the tower room, as if reluctant to step in any farther. His gaze swept over the circular area, taking in the single bed and the mismatched tables and the stacks of books that Merlin hoped would have the good sense to stay put. “Is that… your _owl_?”

“Yes,” Merlin said, moving to pick up the few tomes he’d left open on the larger table. “You remember him, from when he saved your life? His name is Archimedes and he’s a bit sensitive. Don’t raise your voice or he’ll be cranky when he wakes up.”

Arthur huffed and rolled his eyes. “Of course. Let’s not disturb _the owl_.”

Merlin chose to ignore the flicker of annoyance he could feel threatening to manifest. Arthur simply couldn’t help being an inconsiderate prat. “How much time do you have free this afternoon?”

“An hour, or two,” Arthur replied unenthusiastically, looking at his fingernails.

“Well, let’s get started then. How’s your Latin coming along?”

“My Latin is _fine_. I really don’t think there’s any point in my coming here.”

“ _Fabricando fit faber, erus mi_. We can start with some easy translations, to ascertain your level of understanding. Do you still have those books I gave you?”

“Yes,” Arthur admitted, albeit grudgingly. He took a seat at Merlin’s table and leaned both elbows on the surface.

Merlin straightened from gathering another armful of books and saw that Arthur had taken the only stool in the room. He’d have to remember to conjure up or purchase another one before their next lesson. “Erm, well, thank you for not throwing them out. I want you to read them, on your own time. We’ll have discussions over their content and any passages or specific words you don’t understand. They’re quite interesting material actually – I think you’ll enjoy them. Now,” he said and placed several volumes on the table. “This is a dictionary, and this is another one, a bit older but still useful, and this is a book of poetry.”

“ _Poetry_?” Arthur whined.

“I think you’ll find these much easier to interpret than the heavier material. Or I could always find my copy of Proclus, if you like?”

“That won’t be necessary,” Arthur said, but didn’t make any move to grab the books in front of him either.

“Arthur, sire,” Merlin sighed, wishing he had somewhere to sit. He settled for leaning against the table next to the Prince. “Look, I know you’re not thrilled at the idea of having lessons, but it’s really not all that bad. There’s a lot to be learned in these books, more than we can ever hope to completely understand in our lifetimes. These are words written by some of the world’s greatest minds, men who lived centuries in the past but whose wisdom can affect our lives even today. We do their memory an injustice by not studying the words they chose to share, the years they spent perfecting their individual crafts. The hope is always, in the end, that what they teach can give us meaning and a better understanding of the world we live in.”

Arthur scoffed. “But can they teach me how to fight? How to kill my enemy before he kills me? They can’t. They’re just words. There’s nothing in my life that has anything to do with dead philosophers or scientists or silly poetry. It’s a waste of time.”

“I disagree. Books may not be able to tell you how to survive in combat, but they can teach you to know your enemy better. They say that to know why a man fights is to have already won half the battle. Does he do it for love, or loyalty, or duty, or because he is being paid to? Is he driven by religion, hunger, or oppression? Is he picking up a sword to protect the weak that cannot fight for themselves, to fight for his family and his country, or because he enjoys the act of killing? They are all very different motivations and not every war can be won by one side being the stronger in force and sheer numbers. Many have and will be won by words alone, by understanding the reasons why someone rises up to fight. Sometimes, saying the right thing can be all it takes to stop needless bloodshed. And that is not a lesson to be taken lightly, sire.”

Merlin watched Arthur’s face run through a gamut of several emotions, annoyance and curiosity and resignation, and finally quiet acceptance. When Arthur looked up there was something new and speculative in his eyes. “You do babble a lot,” he complained, but there was no true bite to the words.

“And you’re shorter than I expected,” Merlin retorted.

Arthur scowled and Merlin chuckled.

“No one’s ever talked to me like you do,” Arthur said, as if Merlin’s impertinence was particularly confusing.

“We all have our callings in life, sire,” Merlin said, pushing off from the table. “Clearly, I am meant to make your life miserable, as you are to make mine.”

“Fat lot of good it did, you’re still here,” Arthur said, glancing up under his lashes at Merlin after a moment. “I may have… behaved unfairly this past week.”

“Hmm, and I may have interfered with parts of your life I had no right to meddle in. So we’ll call it even, shall we?”

Arthur nodded. “Your apology is accepted.”

“As is yours.”

“A prince does not _apologize_ ,” Arthur spluttered.

“No, I’m quite certain that’s what I heard. Don’t you think so, Archimedes?”

The owl slumbered on and Arthur laughed. “I think I like that bird a bit better now.”

Merlin smirked, then reached over and tapped the cover of one of the unopened books in front of Arthur. “Now, sire, you’ve managed to successfully waste half of our time together, so I suggest you begin translating or you will find dinner cold when you return. Read each line aloud to me, in Latin and then English, and I’ll make corrections as necessary.”

Arthur sighed but did as he was told, thumbing open the book of poetry and settling the dictionaries within easy reach. He propped a fist under his cheek to lean over the pages, mouth drawn into a flat line as his eyes swept across the printed words. “ _Dulce et decorum_ ,” he began, sounding a little rough but hardly the worst Latin Merlin had ever heard, “ _est pro patria mori_. ‘Sweet and… it is sweet and honorable, to die for one’s homeland.’”

Arthur looked up, and Merlin nodded at the unasked question he could see in the Prince’s eyes. “Horace. He knew a thing or two about fighting in a war. An excellent poet too, I might add.”

Arthur huffed. “Alright, you don’t have to make such a point of it, Emrys.”

“Merlin,” Merlin said, laughing. “Call me Merlin.”

*~*~*

Arthur was a surprisingly clever student, and over the next month Merlin grew to envy Arthur’s aptitude for languages and facts. It was the kind of talent for remembering information that Merlin had never been able to achieve in his life, having always relied upon repetition and practice to ensure that things were stuck for good. The difficulty of perfecting complicated spells over the years had helped to sharpen his memory, but he was nowhere near Arthur’s innate ability. It made teaching Arthur almost effortless, though keeping a step ahead of the Prince began to become a priority that took up more and more of Merlin’s time while they weren’t together.

Merlin would have liked to think that he had the complete knowledge of the scholar he was trying to impersonate, but the truth of the matter was that most of the time he was learning right alongside Arthur. He began devoting more of his free time to covering as much reading material and as many topics as possible and he paid frequent visits to Gaius and Geoffrey to get advice on the best ways to approach Arthur’s lessons. Both men were knowledgeable in their own fields and did have excellent advice once Merlin managed to decipher his way through their particular ways of being cryptic and indirect, but the vast majority of planning fell onto Merlin’s shoulders. Magic once more became a bit of a saving boon when he couldn’t be bothered to keep up with the mundane tasks of everyday life, and there were some weeks when the only reason that his sheets were changed and his laundry got folded and his boots didn’t go missing was thanks to this. He’d learned during his time as Arthur’s manservant how to get by without resorting to spells to keep things in order, but with the added responsibility of overseeing both Arthur and his own education, Merlin sometimes felt like he didn’t have enough hours in the day.

At times it almost felt like he’d returned to the months he’d spent alone with only Archimedes for company after abandoning Mordred’s camp, the year before he’d completely cut himself off from the rest of the world after Morgana had revealed her knowledge of his plans. After finding the church he’d spent most of his days seeking an answer to the riddle of time travel, only emerging to find fresh water or tend to his vegetable garden, or to travel to any of the myriad locations outside of Albion that were far better resources for finding magical texts. Only this time he had to turn away inquisitive servants instead of dodging summons from Mordred’s war council, or deal with an impetuous Prince that could turn up at any hour of the day instead of being interrupted by frantic voices pleading to be saved from Camelot’s army coming from one of his scrying bowls. It was a dramatic shift after three years of being at war and Merlin still found himself sometimes waking in a panic on the cusp of a dream filled with blood and fire, or stopping in the middle of the hallway to look around with a overwhelming sense of incredulity that the spell had actually worked, a feeling that sometimes left him wondering for hours whether it was even all real. Having Arthur around, though younger and irascible, and Gaius, who proved to be more like the man he remembered by the day, made the impossible seem a little more genuine. Though he’d seen and done too much to ever fully be rid of the hyper-awareness that caused even passing glances to prickle the hairs on the back of his neck, they did help to keep the worst of his memories at bay.

By some stroke of kindness, or perhaps as a hint of the maturity Merlin hoped Arthur might one day achieve, Arthur did not revert to his abominable behavior or make any further attempts to drive Merlin out of Camelot. Their truce seemed to hold out well enough, though Arthur took a particular kind of pride in making it clear that despite appearances, Merlin was in his employment and not the other way around. If Arthur wanted to take his lessons out on the field after practice Merlin had to gather up his books or deal with a surly Prince and lose his chance for the day. If Arthur wanted to sit outside on one of the balconies when the wind was whipping up hard enough to make speech nearly impossible, Merlin had to grit his teeth against the urge to banish the gales with a well chosen word. And if Arthur wanted to show up at Merlin’s door well after sundown, looking petulant and dripping mud off his boots, Merlin had to let him inside so he could read quietly to himself until his head touched down on the table and he drooled on the open pages. Arthur’s behavior had the benefit of preventing Merlin from staying cooped up in his tower indefinitely, though Merlin still hadn’t forgiven him for pounding on his door that one morning right after dawn – he’d barely been awake enough to apply his disguise, let alone find a clean set of clothes or teach a lesson on plant biology, and he suspected Arthur had known that as well. He’d issued a memorandum on lessons before the first morning’s bell, after that.

Despite Arthur’s best intentions to get Merlin out-of-doors, the weather in Albion that time of year was a changeable beast that at times made even _thinking_ about moving around physically exhausting. Peaks of high humidity and ugly heat turned the air to soup and often drove Merlin and Arthur to seek cooler spaces than the tower in the afternoon, and they met more than a few times in the cool depths of the castle’s cellar or took refuge in the labyrinth of old and unused cell blocks. Merlin feared for the state of his books with all the excessive moisture and placed charms on the bookcases to keep their pages dry, and as tempting as it was to do the same for himself the fleeting pleasure would surely hardly warrant the trade-off of being discovered as a sorcerer. Merlin had to suffer with the rest of the country as the dampness suffocated everything like a hot rag on the face, and there were days when Merlin almost longed for the freedom of being an enemy of Camelot for the sake of being able to conjure a cold breeze.

The weather remained miserable on into late summer and the raging storms that came on the heels of the worst of the humidity and heat were the only things that broke up the monotony of the crawl from day to day. The storms were never less than a deluge that came quick and mercilessly, throwing lightning bolts that shook the very foundations of the castle and dumping enough rain to turn Camelot’s city roads into muddy rivers. More than once the Merlin turned an eye to the castle moat as it was filled to near capacity, but whether through sheer luck or some feat of architectural planning the city never suffered worse than soggy roofs and muddy clothing. Gradually and by small degrees the weather began to cool in the mornings, leaving behind acres of wheat fields that Merlin could see stretching into the distance from his tower windows, the orchards that lined the hilly slopes of the castle near to bursting with fruit as the harvest season approached.

It came as a surprise, the day that Merlin realized he’d been in Camelot for over three months. In that span of time he’d gained a friend once more in Gaius, had discovered an unlikely companion of academia in Geoffrey of Monmouth, and had become an unexpectedly influential part of Prince Arthur’s upbringing. Life in Camelot was lackadaisical most days and the greatest excitement Merlin ever saw came from Arthur’s exuberant talks of his latest hunt or the gossip he overheard in the castle about visiting noblemen and their retinue. It made it easier to believe the tales he’d heard of Uther Pendragon’s era of peace when Merlin only saw the city below Camelot’s castle continuing to prosper each day, growing at the edges and drawing people in from all over the kingdom to trade, visit, or settle to find their fortunes. There were no sorcerers hell-bent on overthrowing the Pendragon line, no mythical creatures terrorizing innocent people, no old curses resurrecting to bring plague and ruin upon the shining kingdom, no hint of magic whatsoever.

Merlin wanted to hold onto the truths that he knew, of the knowledge of how fragile a peace it truly was, but more often he found himself being drawn into the lie in much the same manner Gaius must have over so many years. Without any immediate threats to remind him of the ugly underbelly of Uther’s campaigns to secure his peaceful kingdom, the day-to-day of teaching, reading, eating, and sharing stories over tea made the future seem far off and forgettable, like the whispers of nothing more than a bad dream. It was a blessing and a reprieve that Merlin still didn’t believe he’d earned the right to have, but each passing day made it a little easier to forget about the darkness and the bloodshed for a little while longer. Merlin might have been living a lie, but he was content with his new life in a way he’d never felt before. And that was precisely why, when things did change, he was caught completely unprepared.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   
> **Glossary**   
> 
> 
> _Fabricando fit faber, erus mi_ – practice makes perfect, my lord


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Huuuuuuuuuuge thanks to my lovely beta [](http://www.livejournal.com/users/dria_uesugi/profile)[**dria_uesugi**](http://www.livejournal.com/users/dria_uesugi/) , who helps me to realize every week just how in desperate need I am of a second pair of eyes ♥

Arthur was completely insufferable the week prior to his fourteenth birthday. Uther had made official announcements that there were to be feasts, events, and tributes paid to honor the Prince that was now approaching manhood, and Merlin was having no luck keeping Arthur’s concentration on his lessons when he preferred spending the time speculating on his gifts, the food at the banquets, and what sort of competitions his father would be holding that he would _finally_ be allowed to participate in.

“You do know that they’ll just _let_ you win anything you enter,” Merlin interrupted, perhaps a bit spitefully, after Arthur put down his stylus for third time to talk about his approaching birthday. Merlin never remembered his own being anywhere near this exciting when he was a boy (that his birthday happened in midwinter was probably also to blame), and Arthur had already talked all possible topics to death a dozen times over. Merlin did find the Prince’s anticipation endearing on some level, but listening to him prattle on about the new horse that he was _sure_ his father was going to give to him had lost its appeal days ago.

“They’ll do no such thing,” Arthur snapped. “I’m the Prince and they will have to fight me fairly. The soldiers won’t respect me if things deliberately fall in my favor. The knights know that.”

“And if they’re worried about hurting you? Don’t you think they’d be more afraid of Uther being upset that you’re injured, rather than making sure the people respect you?”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about, Merlin,” Arthur insisted, but his initial anger seemed to be losing ground to the undercurrent of uncertainty in his voice.

Merlin suffered a small twinge of conscience for that. “You’re right, I don’t. But I do know that these arithmetic problems won’t solve themselves, and you’ve only finished two. Please, try and concentrate, Arthur.”

“I don’t know why I need to know the area of a lopsided square anyway,” Arthur huffed. He did pick up the stylus again, but only to tap the flat end against his bottom lip. After a moment he looked up at Merlin. “Where have you gotten a hold of so much parchment, anyway? I’ve never seen a man have so many blank of sheets of paper as you.”

Merlin was hardly going to admit that he had a spell that neatly cleaned all traces of ink from any surface. “It is called an _irregular polygon_ , sire. Please use the correct terminology.”

‘ _Irregular polygon_ ’ Arthur mouthed mockingly, but he did bend his head to the task of completing the next problem on the sheet. Merlin sighed soundlessly.

They worked on opposite sides of the table for several quiet minutes, the scratch of Merlin’s quill as he made notes accompanying the sound of their breathing and the soft flutter of air that was spilling into the room from the open windows of the tower. Arthur’s hand was moving steadily across the wax tablet, bottom lip bit in concentration, but Merlin knew he hadn’t heard the last of Arthur’s thoughts on the topic of his birthday. He would be very happy when the week was over and they could go back to some measure of normalcy in the castle.

Arthur put down the pen again after not more than ten minutes had passed. “How well trained is Archimedes?”

“I’m sorry, what?” Merlin asked. He glanced across the room to where the owl was currently sleeping. “What do you mean, _trained_?”

“Well there’s obviously some background, or he wouldn’t listen to you like he does. Not that he does all the time, but still. I heard some of the knights mention that there might be a falconry competition for the festivities. Can I use Archimedes? He’s a bit fearless, he could probably knock all those other birds out of the sky.”

“No, you may not _use_ Archimedes,” Merlin grated, crossing his arms. “Archimedes is an independent creature, here by choice, not because I captured him and trained him to be. He would hardly agree to be used in such a manner.”

“You’re just jealous,” Arthur accused. “You’ll want to use him yourself for the competition, admit it!”

Merlin threw his hands up, exasperated and so far beyond simply being annoyed by Arthur’s deteriorating attention span. “Arthur, I have no desire whatsoever to subject myself to the kind of personal humiliation that can only come from standing in front of a crowd of strangers and embarrassing myself in a field that I have no expertise in. _At all_. These games are a waste of time and you would be better off remembering that there is more to life than tournaments and beating men with swords for the pure sport of it. I’m only hoping for this week to finally end so that we might have some peace once more. And you are getting distracted again!”

Arthur’s cheeks rapidly flushed and his bottom lip was jutting out, looking more upset by Merlin’s words than he would have expected him to be. “I see,” he said stiffly.

“Arthur,” Merlin deflated. “I only… I’m only thinking of what’s best for you, and you are letting this interfere with your studies.”

Arthur shrugged and bent head over his work once more. “No one would expect to see _you_ there at any of the events,” he scoffed lowly.

“I hadn’t planned on it,” Merlin said dryly, rolling his eyes to the ceiling. Had there ever been a time when he’d been this young and preoccupied by so much frivolity? His vague memories of footraces between him and Will and the glossy beetles they’d pitted against each other in make-believe fights to the death had never seemed filled with this much drama and headache. Even when Merlin was jumping in to land a helpful punch or drag Will off whatever loony sod had made a comment about Will’s father had never led to anything but bruised knuckles and split lips, things Merlin didn’t tie closely with fun and excitement. Watching Arthur in combat tournaments was another story, and they had always left Merlin stuck somewhere between awe of the spectacle and worry over whatever injury the Prince might sustain. Though this version of Arthur was talented he was nothing compared to the well-trained warrior that Merlin had known. The other knights would be ordered to go easy if they hadn’t already, or Uther was less concerned about his son’s well-being than Merlin gave him credit for.

But the longer the silence reigned the more Merlin began to suspect that he really was the first one to bring this one small detail to Arthur’s attention. He could feel the weight of the Prince’s mood like a cold wind on his neck, and it made him shift in his seat, inwardly annoyed that he felt any remorse when Arthur was just acting like a spoiled brat and through no fault of Merlin’s. Arthur was only used to getting his way and just because Merlin refused to quail and pet the boy’s self-esteem it seemed he was meant to suffer through another bout of bad moods and sullen glares. Arthur’s ego would be inflated enough in the future without his help in the here and now, and that he knew for a fact.

The quiet was tense and punctuated by the Prince’s short jabs of the stylus into the wax-faced tablet. Merlin couldn’t help shooting quick looks over at his pupil, wondering just how long the clipped words and angry looks would last until Arthur’s latest fit blew over.

“Look,” Merlin said when the mute treatment had stretched too long for his nerves. He was finding increasingly difficult to read any further along in his book with the prevalent dark cloud he could feel hovering over Arthur. “If you really want Archimedes that badly, all you have to do is ask him yourself. It’s up to him whether he goes or not.”

Arthur did not lift his head or give any sort of acknowledgment that he’d heard Merlin.

“Sire…” Merlin started again.

“I don’t care,” Arthur said shortly.

“Arthur, come now, you’re being unreasonable.”

“It doesn’t matter!” Arthur shouted, slamming the tablet down with an ominous sounding crack. Despite a few notable times to the contrary, Arthur was rarely physically violent and the display had Merlin sitting up straight in his seat, staring at the boy in surprise. Arthur’s head was turned and his shoulders were rigid, a tense line of anger that he seemed, at least, to be making an effort to control. When he finally looked at Merlin his eyes were guarded. “Did you mean what you said before?”

“Which part, exactly?” Merlin asked carefully.

“About… about it being a waste of time. About everyone expecting me to win because… just because I’m the King’s son.”

The instant regret hit Merlin like a solid punch to the stomach. It hadn’t occurred to him until that moment that he’d genuinely hurt Arthur’s feelings, and it was quite possibly the worst emotion he’d ever felt. “No, I shouldn’t have said that. The men do respect you, everyone can see that. I’m sure that they’re honorable enough not to compete unfairly for the sake of appearances. You will just have to trust them to engage in an honest fight. And I think that… everyone has things which they value differently. You would hardly expect to see one of Camelot’s knights excited at discovering a new volume of ancient literature, and no one expects someone like me to show up in the grandstands or stand on the field. I spoke out of line, and for that I am sorry, sire.”

Arthur snorted softly. His gaze was hooded but he looked less weighed down by whatever gloom had overtaken his thoughts. “Merlin, you only call me ‘sire’ when you’re lying or trying to get me to do something I don’t like. I’m not an idiot.”

“No, you’re not,” Merlin agreed, shaking his head. “Will you accept the apology of a bitter old man who doesn’t know when to shut up sometimes?”

Arthur gave a half-shrug and a nod, rubbing a hand over one of his cheeks and then through his hair. The motion was unexpectedly endearing on some level, this small version of Arthur with his too-round jawbone and bright eyes needing to physically push away the hurt that Merlin had inflicted. He’d never once seen Arthur as an adult so affected by the opinions of another, no one outside of Uther anyhow, and the realization of the power he seemingly held did not inspire the glow of triumph that Merlin might have once previously thought it could.

He watched Arthur carefully as the Prince straightened his tablet and picked up his stylus again (Merlin would have to check it later for cracks), but instead of writing he merely dug the tip of it into a corner of the wax, creating a deep indentation near the frame. Arthur continued looking pensive and subdued while his eyes tracked over the open pages in front of him, perhaps reading but not really seeing the words, or so Merlin suspected.

“It’s only that,” Arthur began after a moment, interrupting the silence unexpectedly. “I had thought you would come.”

“To watch the tournaments?” Merlin asked, folding his hands in front of him.

Arthur shrugged, still not meeting Merlin’s eyes.

“I would be happy to, Arthur, if you want me to,” Merlin said sincerely. He smiled, pleased but bemused. “You only had to ask, you know.”

“I wouldn’t want to drag you away from your important books,” he scoffed, but Merlin could see a hint of pink growing at the tips of the Prince’s ears. The blush was surprising and the longer Merlin stared the harder it seemed to draw a full breath.

“I promise I’ll be there,” Merlin swore. He also couldn’t resist teasing, just a little, because Arthur’s blush was taking its sweet time receding. “Shall I find a spot close to the front, so I can wave when it’s your turn?”

Arthur threw the stylus at Merlin and he ducked aside to let it clatter to the floor as they both laughed. “Now you will have to go fetch that,” Merlin pointed out.

“No,” Arthur said, rolling his eyes as if Merlin were daft for suggesting that he lower himself to such a task. “I’m done anyway, here.”

Merlin accepted the tablet and its recognizable lines of Arthur’s marks in the soft wax. “Excellent. Now you can begin studying the next chapter on finding surface areas of solid objects while I check your arithmetic.”

Arthur dutifully picked up the current volume he was working through on Euclidean Geometry and leaned back in his chair to place his feet on the table while he read, displaying just that small bit of rebellion that Merlin chose not to comment on. His boots were clean at least, this time.

“So what will you get me for my birthday?” Arthur asked a few minutes later, blond eyebrows peeking out from behind his book.

“Hmm, if I told you, it wouldn’t be a surprise, would it?” Merlin answered absently, still checking over Arthur’s work.

“Come on, Merlin. Give me a hint.”

Merlin grinned. “Be patient, sire. You’ll have to wait.”

“It’s not a book, is it?” Arthur asked, sounding entirely unhappy with the idea. “It better not be a book, Merlin. Do you hear me?”

“I have nothing to say,” Merlin replied evasively, enjoying the sight of Arthur’s mounting frustration.

Arthur scowled before returning his attention to the open book in his lap. “I’ve changed my mind. You can sit up here in your tower and rot for all I care.”

Merlin couldn't help laughing. Just for that, he was going to hide the pair of hunting knives he’d gotten for Arthur inside a false book cover, just to see the look on his face.

*~*~*

Arthur’s birthday passed with as much pomp and circumstance as possible when backed by a royal treasury, and even Merlin had to admit that Uther outdid himself on the number of events and the feasts that were thrown in the Prince’s honor. It seemed like all of Camelot had a reason to celebrate as the merriment spread to the streets and spilled over in the smiles and the cheers of the people as they watched their Prince take down knights one by one in the competitions. Merlin sat through every single one and the similarities he witnessed between this Arthur and the one he used to watch from the sidelines had stolen his breath away at times. Arthur had improved immensely in the past few months, not to where he was unbeatable, but _good_ , and everyone seemed equally caught up in the amazement of watching this boy take his first, proud steps into adulthood with a skill they had never witnessed before.

With Arthur’s birthday the harvest season came to an end and the weather cooled dramatically within the span of a few weeks; hot in the daytime but dipping to temperatures low enough in the evening that had Merlin latching most of his windows shut to trap as much warmth in the tower as possible. He began giving Arthur lessons in astronomy when the clear, cool nights offered the best viewing (he’d discovered a few months back that the loft above his chambers led to a door with access to stairs onto the flat roof of the tower), and Arthur displayed a fascination with all things celestial that Merlin had not expected to encounter in the Prince. The days continued to slide by one after another. Arthur took every possible excuse to ride out with his new horse, Merlin took to wearing his warmer robes out of doors, and Samhain drew closer on the scent of night blooming jasmine and in the turning of the stars in the heavens.

Merlin was dozing over an open book when the warning bells began to ring late one evening, and the sound jolted him to his feet before he was even fully awake. It was years since he’d heard the agitated clang of Camelot’s belfry, but the cold slide of fear through his stomach felt exactly the same way it always had back then. The alarm never heralded anything but danger of the worst sort and Merlin cast out with his senses as he stumbled up from the table and headed to the nearest window, hoping to pinpoint the reason for the sound. His robes floated into his hand when he held it out wordlessly for the item but his attention was turned almost entirely toward the town below, sifting through the conglomeration of life energies and the muted elements that made up the buildings and roads, but there was nothing magical or otherwise that he could sense amiss in the city.

The bells continued to toll and then abruptly fell quiet, leaving Merlin with only the strained hum of the silence in his ears. His heart nearly jumped out of his chest when there came an urgent tapping on his door.

Merlin was across the room in two steps and he pulled the door open so fast that the servant on the other side still had his hand lifted in mid-knock. “What is it?”

“Sir, your presence is requested immediately in the council’s chambers.”

Merlin flew past the startled boy, taking the stairs two at a time despite how incredulous it must have looked for a man his age. Something was wrong, and the cold feeling in his gut had twisted and manifested into outright dread.

When Merlin reached the meeting hall he found the room ablaze in torchlight and already filled by a small group of individuals. Uther and Gaius were familiar faces, as well as some of the knights, but the squire in their midst was nearly unrecognizable. He was covered in blood and bruises and crying even as he tried to speak, one arm held supportively by a knight and the other in Gaius’ hand as the physician attempted to clean away the worst of the grime on the boy’s face with a wet cloth.

“Are you sure?” Uther was demanding, his face a stony mask that Merlin had come to realize years ago meant that the King was holding back an emotion much worse than the frigid anger there for everyone to see.

“Yes, my lord,” the squire sobbed. “All dead… they killed them… told me… told me to run…”

“And my son?” Uther insisted. The King’s voice caught just a tiny bit on the last word, but it was enough to make Merlin’s stomach drop through his feet.

“Arthur,” Merlin breathed. He had to put out a hand to steady himself against one of the nearby chairs.

Gaius turned at the sound and his eyebrows shot up. “Merlin, come here. There’s been-”

“Gone, sire,” the boy whispered with a broken sniffle. “They said… said to…”

The squire promptly fainted and Gaius tutted as the knight swept the boy’s limp form into his arms. “My lord, the boy is exhausted. Please let me attend to him first, and then we can find out what message he was left alive to deliver to you.”

Uther was pale and grim faced, and Merlin saw that his gloved hands were clenched into painful looking balls at his sides, the leather creaking audibly over the crackle of the torches. “Do it, Gaius. I want his words the moment he awakens.”

“Yes, sire,” Gaius promised, bowing. Gaius and the knight turned to leave the room and Merlin followed, casting one last look at Uther’s rigid back, seeing a mirror of the anger and the shock that Merlin himself was still reeling from.

“What happened?” Merlin demanded as they walked.

“Prince Arthur left with a hunting party this afternoon,” Gaius began to explain. “They were due back before nightfall, but did not show. Uther was preparing to send out a search party when the boy was found stumbling through Camelot’s gates. He was a squire to one of the knights that accompanied Prince Arthur on the hunt. His injuries are not severe but he appears to be in shock, and I’m worried that he may have lost a lot of blood.”

“Gaius,” Merlin gritted out as they neared the steps to the physician’s quarters. “What happened to _Arthur_?”

“I don’t know, Merlin,” Gaius said as they pushed into the room. He directed the knight to lay the boy on the pallet in front of the fire and began clearing space on one of his workbenches. “Whatever happened out there, the boy was the only one left alive, or the only one that was allowed to return to Camelot. We won’t find out until he awakens.”

The knight bowed and left the room as Merlin sat down hard on a nearby stool, overwhelmed by the implication that Arthur could be… that he might…

“Merlin,” Gaius snapped, startling Merlin out of his shocked daze. The physician’s face softened marginally. “I understand that this is difficult, but I do need your help right now. This boy needs time to recover, but I’m afraid that time is something we do not have. Can you heal him, quickly?”

Merlin blinked dumbly for a second. “I… I think so. Yes, let me…” Merlin scrambled to rise and lurched across the short space to the squire’s cot. He stood looking down at the blood-covered youth, and for a heart-stopping moment blond hair and familiar features superimposed themselves over his face, pale and still in death. He jumped when he felt Gaius’ hand land on his shoulder.

“Merlin, relax, please. You won’t be able to help Arthur unless we find out what happened tonight. And you must heal this boy so we can learn what he knows.”

Merlin squeezed his eyes shut and nodded. Gaius was right. There was nothing they knew for sure yet, and if there was a chance, if there was still hope, then they needed to know. Merlin needed to know.

Merlin placed his hand over the boy’s forehead. “ _Biddan lácne byre_.”

The rush of power was soothing and feeling it pour out of his fingers was a balm to Merlin’s nerves, the act of healing and mending quelling some of the anxious beatings of his heart. He could feel Gaius watching over his shoulder as the wounds on the boy’s face and arms began to knit shut on their own, the wan complexion of his skin gradually replaced by a healthier, rosy hue, tinged a burnished orange by the light of the fire. The ugly red and purple bruises on his cheekbones and neck faded away to pale yellow spots, and the scratches and raw wounds on his knuckles healed into patches of new, pink skin. Gaius bent forward to wipe a clean wet cloth across the boy’s ears and throat, clearing away more of the dried blood and dirt.

“Thank you, Merlin,” Gaius said sincerely. “Your power is… quite extraordinary.”

Merlin said nothing but continued to watch the boy, taking in the rise and fall of his small chest, the dry mouth parted in exhaustion and the blood that had managed to stain the sheets under him before he’d been healed. Whatever had happened, wherever Arthur was at that moment, Merlin knew he was suffering a much worse fate. And the thought chilled him to the bone.

The boy didn’t stir immediately, but a moment later Gaius reappeared at his side with a cup of water and moved Merlin out of the way to gently shake him awake.

“There now, easy lad,” Gaius chided when the squire awoke and nearly knocked the cup away in his desperation to grab it for a drink. Gaius helped the boy sit up and wrapped a supportive arm around his narrow shoulders as he gulped down the water. Merlin remained standing by the head of the bed, arms folded and fingers unconsciously clenching hard at the material of his robes. He could feel his own worry and impatience radiating from every pore of his being, but could not bring himself to care or temper the emotions curling inside him.

“Do you remember where you are?” Gaius asked as he settled the boy on the pallet. “What’s your name?”

“Edward, sir,” the boy murmured, glancing around the room. “I was… I… oh!”

The boy tried to sit up quickly, but was halted once more by Gaius’ hands on his arms and by the groan that tore from his throat. He coughed harshly but did not bring back up the water, and when the fit had subsided Gaius gently pushed him back to lie down once more. “You’ll hurt yourself if you do that again,” Gaius warned sternly. “I want you to tell me everything that happened, everything you can remember.”

“You must tell the King,” Edward whispered urgently. “You must, Prince Arthur…”

“I will tell the King personally,” Gaius promised. “Tell us what happened, child.”

“Bandits,” the boy said in a rush, eyes widening and skin paling in memory. “They came from everywhere, we couldn’t stop them! It was so fast sir, the knights, the trackers, they killed them all. They said I… that I was to go back alone. They have the Prince! I have to tell… tell the King…”

“Yes?” Gaius prompted, both he and Merlin leaning forward to hear past the boy’s trembling words.

“A ransom, sir,” Edward breathed, his small frame shaking. “They knew who he was. They’re demanding a ransom. But they hurt him! He was bleeding sir, I didn’t know what to do, I tried to help him, but they made me leave. Kicked me and stabbed me and chased me. I didn’t want to go sir, please, I didn’t…”

“It’s alright,” Gaius soothed, placing a weathered hand on the boy’s head. “You’ve done well. If you had not returned, we would know nothing of this. Tell me what ransom they demanded.”

“Five… five hundred pounds, sir. Please tell the King… I tried…”

“All will be well, lad. You can rest now.”

Gaius glanced up and Merlin understood the small nod he was given. “ _Swefe_ ,” Merlin whispered. Edward’s eyes promptly closed as he fell asleep.

Merlin was already striding across the room when Gaius’ voice called out to him. “Merlin, you can’t.”

Merlin stilled, back to Gaius and hands clenched at his sides. “You have no right to stop me. I’m the best choice in this whole kingdom to save Arthur. You know that.”

“I do,” Gaius agreed, and Merlin could hear the shuffle of his slippers as he approached. “But think for a moment. It will not look well if you were to disappear the same night Prince Arthur was taken. Uther will suspect any suspicious behavior, and you cannot afford to be caught. Leave this to Uther and the knights.”

Merlin shook his head. “I can’t, Gaius. I won’t! Protecting Arthur has always been my destiny, and now… now I might lose him before he can even _become_ my destiny. Everything I’ve done, the war, coming here, I didn’t fight just to have it end like this. There’s no reason if I… if I can’t come back with Arthur alive, then I won’t bother coming back at all. I have to do something.”

“Merlin, please think about this.”

“I have,” Merlin said, turning back to glance at Gaius. “And I can’t let him die. Please, give me a little time to get out of Camelot. That’s all I ask.”

Gaius took a deep breath, his expression fierce and stern, but he nodded. “I’ll do what I can. Go.”

Merlin hurried from Gaius’ rooms and ran straight for the castle stables, his disguise melting away from him in the darkness and a burst of adrenaline flooding him with purpose. Only one stable hand was moving between the stalls when Merlin silently entered the building and he felt no guilt as the boy tumbled over and fell asleep atop a mound of hay. He saddled up his brown mare with quick precision, his restless magic bleeding through his fingertips and causing her to dance impatiently to be off as he swung himself over her backside. Merlin rode hard out of the castle gates and through the lower town, past the startled guards that turned in surprise at the sound of horse hooves on the cobblestone but were too slow to bring to a halt, and out through the city gate that the watchmen found themselves unable to close as the lone rider on horseback sped past them. Once out on the open road Merlin heard the familiar screech of Archimedes’ call overhead as he neared the woods Arthur favored as his hunting grounds. There was a waxing moon low in the western sky and Merlin estimated he had only a few hours of light left before the night became that much more difficult to navigate through. It would also make it that much harder for Arthur’s kidnappers to see him coming.

Merlin pulled the horse to a stop once he was some distance into the woods and heard a branch creak above him as Archimedes settled to watch and wait. He conjured his favored blue orb and set it floating in front of the horse, the shifting whorls of light throwing unusual shadows among the trees. The mare stamped her foot uneasily but did not shy away from the light, and Merlin curled his fingers through the air to cast another spell. “ _Bespyrige Arthur Pendragon_.”

The ball wavered for a moment before moving off to the southwest, and Merlin kicked the horse to follow.

The night air was cold and Merlin felt the sting of the wind on his face as he rode hard, the crash of the horse’s hooves through the underbrush and her heavy breathing the only sound that fell on his ears. He was aware, on some level, that Archimedes was keeping pace with them above the trees, but the tawny owl’s flight was as soundless as the hollow, heavy beats of Merlin’s heart. A curious numbness had fallen over him, like a woolen blanket muffling his emotions and his awareness of the outside world beyond the horse’s mane under his fingers and the ball of light guiding them deeper into the forest. There were too many unknowns to dare considering, too many possibilities that Merlin could see in his mind’s eye if he allowed them to manifest – that Arthur was dead or dying, hurt in a way that Merlin could not heal with magic and words, his innocence gone and his spirit broken, and a future lost forever to the unknown – too many terrible things that Merlin feared would drive him into madness.

The woods were almost too dense to ride through in some places and Merlin used his magic to push aside trunks and branches and other obstacles without a second thought, never allowing the horse’s pace to falter. The minutes slipped by into an hour as they traversed through empty clearings and over shallow streams that cut through the forest like glittering, silver ribbons in the moonlight. No doubt they had been crossed by Arthur’s captors to throw off Camelot’s tracking hounds, but the orb’s guiding beacon was dauntless in its pursuit; they had already traveled much farther away from the castle than Merlin was sure Arthur and his hunting party had ever dared to venture. The spongy forest floor gave way to rockier terrain as the moon began to set on the horizon, and Merlin followed the trail over several gently sloping hills until gradually the ground leveled again and the stench of standing water grew unpleasantly thick on the air. They were entering the marshlands, and Merlin realized just how well the bandits had chosen their defensive ground in case any of Camelot’s knights managed to make it this far. The bogs were dangerous and unpredictable, liable to send any wayward traveler to a swift death in their murky depths.

Great pockets of thick fog had settled over the marshes and Merlin no longer had the aid of the moonlight to guide him as they descended into the area. He could only trust in the tracking spell to lead them safely through, and he slowed the horse to give the mare her footing with each cautious step she took across the fen’s wild grasses. Archimedes abandoned flying to meet their new pace and swooped down to take up his perch on Merlin’s shoulder, and Merlin felt a bit of the anxiety he’d been carrying since they left Camelot dissipate under the familiar pinch of the owl’s talons digging into his arm. He and Archimedes had faced many battles together, and there was no truer friend that Merlin would choose to have alongside him when he came face to face with the men who had stolen Arthur away.

They made slow progress for half an hour, only pausing when the light did to veer off slightly and lead them across more stable ground. The blue sphere of light bobbed unerringly before them, illuminating the spindly trees and brush that otherwise would have blocked their way, giving life to the dark shadows that surrounded the twisting path. Merlin’s nerves were on edge from the sluggish pace, the unwelcome prospect of taking a misstep into the bog, and the fact that Arthur was somewhere ahead and he had not reached him yet, and he found himself unconsciously gripping the reins tight enough to chafe the skin of his palms. Dawn was several hours off at best and Camelot’s forces were no doubt tracking their way across the same terrain that Merlin had covered earlier, possibly even following the trail that Merlin had left behind. There was no way for them to catch up to him before sunrise, but knowing that there was a small army at his back did make him feel a little better. If for some reason he failed at least Uther and Gaius would have a way to know the outcome, because Merlin had meant every word earlier. He would not return to Camelot without Arthur.

Merlin halted when the blue orb came to a full stop and immediately became alert as he took in the surrounding fog-ridden terrain. He slipped from the horse silently, feeling firm ground under his boots and breathing in the stench of stagnant water. Archimedes flapped once on his perch, wing feathers rustling in his impatience to be off as much as Merlin wished to.

The mare attempted to back away with a nervous snort as Merlin took hold of her reins, but she calmed at a touch from his hand and let herself be tied to one of the bare branches on a nearby tree. He banished the floating ball of light with a wave of his hand and stepped around the horse to listen to his surroundings. Frogs and other warbling night creatures echoed through the darkness and there was the distinct buzz of tiny insects and the slight whistle of Archimedes breathing atop his shoulder. He could hear the lap of moving water and tiny splashes, the slither of the long grasses parting in the breeze, and there – the faint nickering of a horse somewhere ahead and off to the right.

Merlin stepped cautiously in the direction of the sound, feeling the squelch of wet earth under his feet, the way the damp fog clung to his hair and skin, and there was a bitter taste to the air different from the pungent scent of the marsh. The fog did not clear but began to brighten as Merlin progressed, and soon he realized he was approaching a campfire as the sound of movement resolved itself into the occasional stamp of a horse’s hoof and the jangle of tack. He paused when he reached the outskirts of the encampment, hidden behind a small stand of trees, and crouched down to take stock of the forces he would be up against.

The fog made it difficult to resolve details in the haze, but the fire pit had been stacked high enough to make out the shapes of several bedrolls and sleeping figures, and there were others awake and walking in and out of the fog at the perimeter of the campsite. All told there were just over a dozen men he could see in the firelight, and it seemed like a small number to have effectively taken out an accompaniment of Camelot’s guards. But the glint of weapons on most of the men, knives and swords and even a spear standing upright near the fire pit, left Merlin with little doubt that this was where the spell had intended to lead him.

Merlin was aware that the element of surprise would have made Arthur and his hunting party unprepared for such an attack, but it was still an unusual incident to have happened at all. Bandit attacks were not common in the woods so near to Camelot’s castle and central city, and for these men to have staged one spoke of something more deliberate than a raiding party that had gotten lucky enough to nab a Prince for ransom. No doubt Uther was entertaining similar thoughts at this very moment, or had already reached the unsettling conclusion once Gaius delivered the message from the squire. Merlin didn’t like the implications either way. They were heading toward Camelot’s borders with the kingdom of Wessex, but the direction could be deliberate or entirely unrelated and there was no way to know if the bandits were working alone or under directions from someone with far more power and resources.

Camelot could not afford to go to war, not when it surely meant Arthur being drafted to fight far too early in his life for Merlin’s liking. There would be no chance of Merlin being allowed to accompany him to the battlefield to protect him. Camelot was a model for peace that even Merlin, exiled as he’d once been and now living there under the daily threat of exposure, could admire for the stability it brought to the common people and the prosperity that could thrive unhindered without warfare destroying farmland and villages and senselessly murdering men by the thousands. The ban on practicing magic would always be a black smear on the price of that peace and Merlin had been sickened by the stories the Druids told of just how far Uther’s vendetta had reached across Albion in his effort to purge magic from the land. But the means to bring magic back did not rest with Camelot’s current King. The dragon’s words had never rung so true (and suddenly so clear) until Merlin had seen the future shatter around him in blood and betrayal. It was the outcome he had sworn not to see repeated, that he had dedicated years of his life to changing, and Merlin swore that silent oath to himself again – he would not let Arthur come to harm, even if that meant preventing Camelot from going to war, or protecting him from Merlin himself.

Merlin settled his breathing, pushing away his anxiety over the unknown to focus on the importance of the task at hand. He could spare no thought on whether Arthur was alive or dead or allow himself to be distracted by the uncertainties of walking into a camp with an unknown number of enemies; there was only the immediate moment, the knowledge of the spells he had at his disposal and the many ways he knew to avoid the thrust of a sword and the path of a well-aimed arrow. He had experienced such states of calm during combat in the past, when the tide had turned in their favor and the magic was flowing swiftly from his fingers across the battlefield and his mind reached that place where there was nothing but Merlin, his magic, and the energy of the earth, air, and stars at his disposal. For this undertaking he could no longer be Merlin, the dotty old scholar. He was Emrys, a wizard of untold power, master of the elements, and the most feared sorcerer to ever grace Albion’s soil.

Merlin stood slowly and ran both palms down his scarlet robes, midnight black bleeding through the fabric in the wake of the touch of his fingertips, and Archimedes dug his talons in as he pulled the hood on his back over his head to shield his face from sight. His eyes were already glowing gold as he stepped out from behind the trees.

The first two men he killed were given no chance to make a sound or yell out a warning. Their windpipes were crushed and their bodies flung high and clear across the camp, soaring over the trees and into the depths of the swamp beyond. The next three men were still reaching for their weapons as fire sprang from Merlin’s fingertips and engulfed them at their feet, and their screams of pain joined the cacophony of the frightened shrieking of the horses and the sound of confused shouting and swords being drawn.

Archimedes left his shoulder with a screech as Merlin threw up a barrier to meet the bandits who were scrambling out of their bedrolls and running in from the trees to meet their attacker. A rain of steel and crossbow bolts bounced harmlessly away as he advanced toward the center of the camp, speaking the words under his breath to summon another spell into his hands as he walked. In the camp’s firelight he could see the dawning looks of surprise and terror on the faces of the men as they spotted the glow of unnatural gold beneath the cover of his hood.

Several of the men abandoned their weapons and turned to run into the fog, though some remained hacking away at Merlin’s barrier in a futile attempt to overwhelm him. Merlin flung his hand at the fleeing bandits’ backs, throwing bolts of lightning across the campsite that burned gaping black holes straight through their chests. The force of the explosions catapulted the charred, smoking corpses into a pile of saddlebags left at the edge of the camp with a crash that rattled the trees. All but one of the men that had been beating at his barrier turned to flee, and Merlin focused his attention upon them as he prepared to summon another orb of living fire into his empty hands. He felt nothing beyond the screams and the scent of fear and burnt flesh, wholly focused on the task of killing anyone who stood in the way of locating his charge.

And that’s when he spotted Arthur. He would hardly have recognized him if not for the fact that there was a boy struggling against the ropes binding his hands and feet on the far side of the camp. He was dirty and bedraggled and his blond hair looked like it had been caked with mud to mask the color. Behind him he saw that Archimedes was attempting to fight off a man approaching from Arthur’s blind side with a slim dagger in one hand, and the bandit was making wild slices through the air with his weapon to fend off the owl’s sharp talons. Sudden relief and hot anger flooded him in equal measure; the relief of seeing Arthur alive and whole a sharp juxtaposition to the rage he felt seeing a man attempt to murder a child in cold blood.

He would have stepped forward to intervene if not for the sudden collision of a heavy object against his shield. Merlin turned in surprise to see the only remaining bandit swinging around a massive two-handed axe, a giant of a man who was yelling a slew of obscenities against sorcerers and their ilk. Merlin was forced to take a step back as the intense jarring of the impacts reverberated through him. Emboldened by Merlin giving ground the bandit pressed forward, attempting to drive him toward the blazing fire pit as he delivered faster, angrier blows. Merlin locked his knees and struggled to hold firm even as the shock of the strikes set his teeth to rattling, and the heat of the flames at his back grew more uncomfortable with every step he was forced to give. He could sense the power of his shield weakening from the constant attacks. His concentration began to waiver, the blows coming down only inches from his skin, bruising in their intensity.

Merlin inhaled sharply and choked on a lungful of bitter smoke, and in that brief lapse felt his shield falter and vanish. Only the muscle memory of Arthur’s relentless combat training enabled him to feint to the side as the bandit’s axe came down for the killing blow. His swing went through empty air and the man stumbled forward, his momentum nearly carrying him into the fire before he righted himself with a yell of frustration. He turned to face Merlin, axe lifted over his shoulder, and in an unarguably foolish move Merlin lunged at him in return, hands outstretched and glowing red. The man attempted to knock him away but Merlin suffered the punch to his sternum in exchange for holding fast to the flesh on the man’s face and neck, heat and magic searing the skin where they made contact. The bandit let out a hoarse, horrified yell that quickly turned into shrieks of pain.

Merlin released him with a push and the man fell to the ground, convulsing and clawing at the space above his neck where the flesh was rapidly melting and blistering, ugly boils bursting with blood and multiplying across his face. His screams were all that could be heard in the camp until they faded into feeble gurgles, the blood rising up in the man’s open mouth and his eyeballs dissolving within the twin gaping sockets of his skull. His violent spasms sent his lower half into the fire pit and Merlin backed away from the stench of burning flesh as the man’s legs were engulfed in flames. In the span of a dozen heartbeats the man’s entire head completely dissolved into nothing but a fetid puddle of flesh and bone that steamed visibly in the air, limbs twitching as Merlin’s corrosive magic worked its way through the rest of the corpse.

Merlin wiped his hands on his robes and turned away from the sight, though compared to all of the unspeakable acts he’d committed in the fight against Camelot this one gruesome act of violence seemed rather insignificant. He couldn’t deny the immense amount of satisfaction he felt from the act of killing, to have ended the life of the kind of low-dog man who would throw hateful slurs and take part in kidnapping and beating a child for the pitiful reward of a few gold. Seeing Arthur tied up had set his blood to boiling and the stubborn brute had given his magic a focus to direct his anger upon. It was a fitting punishment to return the bandit’s own brutality tenfold, and the invigorating hum of magic in his veins told Merlin he was doing all that was necessary. None of these men would ever have a chance to spew their poisonous words or hurt Arthur ever again.

Merlin looked across the camp and saw that Archimedes had left the man attempting to kill Arthur for dead, the body’s twin gaping eye sockets visible from the way it had fallen facing the fire. The owl was now perched on Arthur’s knees and chewing away the bonds holding the Prince captive. Arthur’s blue eyes were as wide as saucers but he had stopped struggling, and Merlin was confident leaving the Prince in the bird’s care as he turned his attention back to the decimated remains of the encampment.

There were small fires scattered throughout the area and one of Merlin’s lightning bolts had hit the bandit’s pile of spare weapons, leaving nothing but burned leather and blasted bits of metal. Merlin carefully walked the site’s perimeter but the last of the fleeing men had already disappeared into the surrounding fog, along with all of the bandit’s horses that had managed to free themselves during the fray. It left Merlin alone with a blazing fire pit, more than a half dozen smoking corpses, and one Prince who was finally free of his restraints and scrambling away from Merlin’s cloaked form. Arthur dove for one of the dead men and snatched up a discarded sword, which he held aloft, trembling, pointing the tip at Merlin from the opposite side of the camp.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **  
>  Glossary   
> **
> 
> _Biddan lácne byre_ – I beseech, heal this boy.
> 
>  _Swefe_ – to send to sleep
> 
>  _Bespyrige Arthur Pendragon_ – Find/track Arthur Pendragon


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look, [](http://www.livejournal.com/users/dria_uesugi/profile)[**dria_uesugi**](http://www.livejournal.com/users/dria_uesugi/) , I didn't add *that* much new stuff this time! Thank you as always from the bottom on my heart for being my unfailing second pair of eyes <3

“St-stay back!” Arthur shouted. Both of his hands were clenched hard around the pommel but the blade wavered unsteadily, dipping and lifting again as Arthur tried to find his footing. It was a reckless show of courage, and the Prince’s bloodshot eyes and the stark fear radiating from him showed another side of it entirely.

Ignoring the tight ball in his chest that he suspected came from witnessing Arthur lift a sword against him once again, Merlin extended a hand and Archimedes flew over to land on his outstretched arm. “My friend will guide you back to my horse,” he instructed with a calmness he didn’t feel. The tips of his fingers were itching with unfocused magic, aware that there were still men in the marsh that could attack them from the cover of the trees and concealing mist. He needed to get Arthur to safety as quickly as possible but the Prince was circling away from him, knuckles white-gripped on the hilt of his sword and shoulders tensing for flight.

“I’m not going anywhere with you! You… you killed them all-”

“Sire!” Merlin barked, patience and nerves wearing thin. Arthur stumbled to a halt in surprise at the address. “You are not out of danger yet. Do as I say and follow him.”

Archimedes flew off and Arthur, displaying some of the good sense that Merlin was rarely given from the boy, stared for a moment longer in open confusion before turning and taking off after the owl, sword still clutched tightly in his hand.

Once Arthur and Archimedes had disappeared into the swirling fog Merlin inhaled deeply and closed his eyes. His head bowed as he sought out the tendrils of earth magic under his feet, and in his mind’s eye he could see them resolving like small, fast flowing rivers that wended their way through the marsh in all directions. They wrapped around tree roots and pushed in and out of the soil, the strongest and largest ones burrowing deeply and down into depths that even Merlin was leery of exploring. He followed those nearest him with a hunter’s instinct, growing aware of the minute vibrations from creatures moving beneath the ground, the ripples of motion across the surface of the murky bogs, the distant patter of running feet as Arthur fled to safety, and the weight of the three men who had doubled back to the camp and were crouching just out of sight to Merlin’s left.

Eyes snapping gold, Merlin turned in their direction and thrust both of his hands out in front of his chest. “ _Forthræse stefnas ond wricen menn oth helle_.”

Startled shouts rang out not far from where he stood; first in disbelief and then dismay as the earth opened under their feet, panicked words that quickly turned into cries for help, until even those became garbled and indistinct as the three men were hauled mercilessly under the ground. Coiled roots crushed bone and severed arteries, the damp soil flowing like water into their open mouths, and with gratifying speed their screams of pain and terror disappeared entirely. Merlin knew with the surety of experience that he could have walked over the very spot and not found a finger or strand of hair on the surface, which truly was a better death than others he’d delivered, both this night and in the past.

Merlin slowly lowered his hands and exhaled roughly, the heavy thrum of magic still buzzing through his veins and trailing sparks off his fingertips onto the ground. It took a conscious effort of will to dampen the bleed of magic through his pores, to push it back and quiet it once more so that the world was no longer superimposed with the glow of wild energy and his own fountain of power. He relaxed the muscles in his shoulders and hands both, and by degrees the red-tinged gold faded from his eyes. His other senses returned in the quiescence of his magic and he was hit with an odor he’d not had reason to smell for over a year, the reek of charred flesh thick and smoky on the air. Merlin turned and drew the sleeve of his robe across his nose to stifle his stomach’s instinct to gag at the stench, and as he left the wreckage behind he sent one last spell toward the remains of the camp. In his wake the fires were snuffed out one by one, blanketing the swamp in darkness.

Beyond the haze of ashen remains, Merlin halted his steps and took a moment to reassert his equilibrium, hoping to calm some of the trembling he could feel in his limbs. It was different from the exhaustion and drain he’d sometimes felt after fighting for hours in battle, when the magic had left his muscles tired and sore, his veins throbbing painfully as raw power pushed through to do his bidding. This aftereffect was something else, exhilaration and small bursts of euphoric energy that set his nerves to singing; it called upon his instincts to use more magic, to bend it to his whim and find more people who would hurt Arthur and make them pay ten-fold for their transgression. The emotion was a ghostly echo from the past, a thirst for vengeance and the need to protect that only Arthur had ever been able to call forth in him. Merlin hadn’t dared to hope after leaving Camelot that he might one day regain that sense of righteous justice, of knowing that his hand had protected not only Arthur but Albion’s future. It was further proof of how directionless his magic had been without Arthur’s presence there to guide it. This moment, this feeling, it was all the affirmation Merlin needed to know that everything he’d sacrificed to come to the past had been worth the price.

Feeling calmer yet more assured of his power than he had in years, Merlin smiled into the darkness and called up another orb of light, whistling inquisitively at the surrounding fog. He heard an answering call from Archimedes and made his way in the owl’s direction, the blue light in his palm guiding his feet across the uncertain terrain.

Upon reaching the mare he’d left tied up Merlin saw that the clearing was devoid of any other human life and Arthur was nowhere in sight. It had probably been futile to hope that the Prince would be sensible and wait for his return, but the boy’s disappearance was probably not as surprising as it should have been. Merlin swore quietly under his breath, because if Arthur had gone off on his own, or was stumbling around blindly in the bog, or worse, had already fallen in somewhere…

“Didn’t he follow you?” he called up irritably to Archimedes. The owl only gave him an unhappy hoot in reply.

Merlin was preparing to summon another tracking spell when he heard the snap of a twig from behind him. He turned, just in time to duck out of the way as Arthur swung the blade he’d stolen at Merlin’s neck.

“Hey!” Merlin shouted but Arthur only lunged again, snarling and making jabs so wild and sloppy that he continued to slip and lose his footing on the spongy ground. Even Merlin was able to easily side-step the broad swings, though this only seemed to infuriate Arthur all the more.

In the pale blue light Arthur looked wild and broken, his muddy hair an untamed nest and his face covered with scratches and blood. There was the beginning of a black eye blooming just above his left cheekbone and the tears in his eyes had left clean, straight tracks through the dirt on his skin where they’d fallen. The sight left Merlin wishing there were still bandits loose in the marsh to be found. He would gladly have walked back into the camp at that very moment to kill them again upon seeing Arthur full of so much pain and rage, and the hot flare of anger that washed over him forced him to screw his eyes shut briefly, praying that his emotions hadn’t unconsciously triggered his magic. Even if he did suddenly want something to blast a hole through, he did not need to give Arthur more reasons to fear him.

Eventually exhaustion and his wounds forced Arthur to abandon the rash, reckless lunges he was making at Merlin, his steps slowing until they were left circling the perimeter of the small clearing, watching each other in the dim light of the orb floating overhead. Arthur was breathing heavily and looked ready to drop at any moment, but every attempt Merlin made to step forward only got him a warning slash of the sword to keep his distance. The Price was holding the sword defensively in front of his chest, shield arm braced against his torso, and Merlin could see that the sleeve of his tunic had been ripped from elbow to wrist with darker stains of dried blood along the seam. It was only one of the many injuries Arthur had suffered at the hands of his kidnappers but also probably the one that needed tending to the most. They’d already wasted too much time and Merlin wasn’t relishing the lecture he’d get from Gaius if he allowed Arthur to come back to Camelot with infected wounds.

“Alright, look…” Merlin tried again.

“Shut up!” Arthur spat. “Stay away from me. You killed all those men you… you’re a sorcerer! I won’t let you kill me too!”

Merlin kept his arms hanging at his sides, eyes trained on the tip of Arthur’s wavering sword. He spoke as soothingly as possible. “I came here to rescue you. I am a sorcerer, but I am only here to protect you. And I think you know that, or you would have taken my horse long before I returned.”

“Liar!” Arthur shouted, his voice cracking on the word. “My father says all who practice magic are evil. You’re a liar, and a murderer!”

Merlin couldn’t help wincing at the all too true accusation, and he was glad for the hood that shielded his face. “I have only done what was necessary to protect you, sire.”

“Don’t call me that! I don’t need your protection! You’re just like them. I won’t let you take me. You can’t ransom me too. I’d rather die!”

With those words Arthur lifted the blade higher, his face an unfamiliar combination of panic and frayed desperation, the edge wobbling dangerously close to his own throat. Merlin reacted without thinking.

The sword twisted out of Arthur’s grip and was flung across the clearing – it came to rest embedded halfway to the hilt through a nearby tree. Arthur was still gaping at his empty hand as Merlin strode across the space between them and gripped the Prince by the top of his uninjured arm. He shook him roughly. “Don’t you _ever_ try to take your own life again, you idiot!” Merlin hissed angrily. “I didn’t ride all the way out here to save you just to watch you try to take off your own head. You will trust me, or I will be forced to tie you to my horse and take you back to Camelot myself. Do you understand?”

Arthur was shaking under Merlin’s grip, strung up on fear and adrenaline, but his eyes were sharp and the angle of his chin was defiant as he looked up into the dark recesses of Merlin’s hood. “You wouldn’t dare go to Camelot, sorcerer. My father would have you killed on sight,” he spat harshly.

“That, I have no doubt of,” Merlin admitted without hesitation. “But that is no reason why I should not help when it’s needed.”

Arthur blinked wildly. “You’re mad,” he declared.

“Possibly. It wouldn’t be the first time someone’s told me that. But I am getting cold and your wounds need tending to. We’d best leave the marshes and seek shelter.”

Arthur twisted savagely out of Merlin’s grip. “I said I’m not going anywhere with you!”

“So what would you rather do?” Merlin snapped, feeling his patience wane. He spread his arms out wide. “Stay here in the swamp? Freeze to death? Wander around aimlessly until you drop from exhaustion or fall into the bog and die?”

“It’s better than accepting the help of a sorcerer,” Arthur sneered.

Merlin snorted. “That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard you say.”

Arthur stilled, looking startled and confused, and Merlin was left with the urge to smack himself soundly across the forehead. He cleared his throat awkwardly. “Look. You have really got to move past this. I’m not asking you to suddenly start thinking magic is okay, because I’ll be the first to admit that it can be pretty dangerous in the wrong hands. I’m just asking you to _get on the horse_ so we can leave and go find your father’s men.”

Arthur looked interested in that bit of news at least. “My father’s men are coming?”

“Yes, and if they’re any good they’ve picked up on the trail I left to get here. But they won’t be able to venture any farther than the marshland border. Now, can we leave?”

Arthur straightened warily, still holding his injured arm clasped to his chest, but his expression was more skeptical than outright hostile. “I don’t trust you,” he declared, which was rather obvious. “If you try to cast a spell on me, or attack my father’s men, or try to kidnap me, or-”

Merlin waved his hand impatiently. “Yes, yes. Painful death, beheading, burned at the stake; trust me, I’ve heard it all. I promise no harm will come to you or Camelot.”

There was a brief silence before Arthur blinked slowly. “You are… very odd,” he concluded.

“And you are very ungrateful,” Merlin grumbled as he turned to walk back to the horse. He untied the mare’s reins and mounted the saddle, scooting as far back in the seat as it would allow as he turned to look back at the Prince.

Arthur had followed a few steps behind and came to stand by the horse’s flank, staring up at where Merlin was seated. He looked annoyed and kept shooting wary glances at the blue light that was weaving idly through the air around them. “Well?” he asked.

“Well what?” Merlin repeated, confused. “Climb on up.”

“I-” Arthur stalled and clenched his jaw. His uninjured hand moved over his left arm, fingers ghosting over the frayed threads of his ripped sleeve.

“Oh!” Merlin said. “Your injury, right. Can I…?” He wiggled his fingers.

Arthur immediately looked horrified. “I said no spells!”

Merlin dropped his hand with a huff. “Well it’s that or you’re walking. Do you really trust yourself to not fall in a puddle in your condition?”

“Like your horse can do any better,” Arthur snapped reflexively. But Merlin was determined to wait this latest fit of temper out, because using magic was the only choice Arthur had left for getting into the saddle without the use of both hands. But Arthur surprised him by circling the horse to stand on the other side and hooking his right heel into the empty stirrup. He gripped the pommel with his right hand and hoisted himself off the ground. Merlin had already shifted back on the saddle to make room, and he watched in surprise as Arthur did a neat maneuver that let him brace his weight against the horse’s neck, curl his arm around to readjust his grip on the pommel, and swing his left leg over so that he was now sitting with his back facing Merlin.

“That was impressive,” Merlin admitted, bracing his feet into the stirrups and shoving Arthur’s knees higher to make room. Arthur hunched forward, as if attempting to make as little contact as possible with Merlin, and he said nothing as Merlin tugged on the mare’s reins to turn them in the opposite direction. They began backtracking out of the marsh, once more following the orb as it bobbed and twisted out in front of them, and the pale blue illumination lit the fog with a soft glow that seemed to emanate from all around them.

“How does it know where to go?” Arthur asked after they’d been traveling for ten minutes in silence.

“Hm, because I told it to? I’ve never really thought about it,” Merlin admitted, nudging the horse to maneuver around a dense thicket.

Arthur snorted. “Useless,” he muttered.

“I did just save your life, you know,” Merlin pointed out, feeling stung. He felt Arthur stiffen in front of him.

“I did not ask for your help. I refuse to be indebted to you, sorcerer.”

Merlin couldn’t help rolling his eyes. Arthur was more stubborn than Gaius could be on his worst days. “Well I wasn’t really planning on asking for a bucket of gold or land or horses or a title or anything, so I don’t think you have anything to worry about.”

“Everyone wants something,” Arthur said bitterly after a moment. He sounded quiet and more jaded than Merlin had ever heard him since coming to Camelot.

They entered a narrow path walled in by tightly grouped trees and Merlin was forced to duck under their branches or risk losing his hood. His chest bumped Arthur’s shoulders but the Prince didn’t flinch away at the touch. Merlin took it as a good sign, or that Arthur was finally succumbing to his exhaustion and was too tired to move; either way, it was nice not to feel the instant recoil of disgust. He’d spent the last few months getting to know Arthur all over again, rediscovering his likes and dislikes, his opinions, his developing sense of honor, and even learning of some new things that Arthur had either grown out of as an adult or had simply never the time or reason to make an issue of. Some traits were achingly familiar while others were like being introduced to a complete stranger, and Merlin had come to appreciate the new relationship his position fostered with the Prince. He couldn’t really call them friends with such a great age difference and they still bickered incessantly, but they’d come to feel comfortable around each other. There was an unspoken trust there and it hurt to see Arthur so closed off to him now.

“Sometimes we just want to keep people safe,” Merlin confessed after the quiet had stretched on again, echoing a truth behind the words that stretched back years.

Arthur said nothing, but Merlin was almost certain that the air felt less tense than it had when they’d left the bandit camp.

It seemed to take longer to leave the marsh than it did to find his way in, but that could probably be blamed on the absence of urgency Merlin had felt while trying to track Arthur down. It was almost too easy to pretend that they were taking nothing more than a leisurely stroll as the mare’s hooves plodded across the damp soil with slow, careful steps and they wended their way through the fog. Merlin didn’t even realize they’d left the marshes until the gentle incline they were taking suddenly took them above the fog bank and he and Arthur found themselves on the face of a wide hill, looking out on a cloudless night sky and a thick mist that obscured the land behind them for miles in all directions.

“Finally out of that,” Merlin said, relieved and inhaling the fresher air as the horse continued her slow jog up the hill. “Not such a useless ball of light now, is it?”

“I never said I was talking about the ball,” Arthur retorted dryly. Merlin resisted the urge to hit him across the backside of his head – just barely.

None of the terrain’s specific features were familiar but Merlin remembered the rocky hills he’d had to pass to get to Arthur and they were making their way over one now, cresting at the top where it was strewn with wide, flat boulders and tenacious patches of scrubs and heather. They picked up the pace as they descended into the next hollow and then up the rise after that, continuing on until the ground leveled once more and Merlin could make out the shape of a forest in the distance, lit with starshine and dark against the horizon.

He brought the horse to a stop and directed his gaze to the floating blue orb ahead of them. “ _Wætere_.”

Arthur spun around in the saddle. “What did you do?” he demanded, furious. “There were to be no spells!”

“Not all spells are dangerous,” Merlin bit back crossly, attempting to rein in his annoyance. “And unless you want to die of thirst or let your wounds fester without getting cleaned, I suggest you trust me and let it direct us to some running water.”

Arthur was sitting stiffly and seemed to be trying to stare at Merlin through the obscurity of his hood. “You keep telling me to trust you, but you won’t even show me your face.”

That threw Merlin. “That’s- it’s just… I can’t have you running off to tell your father you know the identity of a sorcerer, now can I?”

“So I would know you, then?” Arthur asked, far too shrewdly.

“N-no,” Merlin stammered. “But you could pick me out of a crowd. Or send out a search party. Or put up wanted notices. I’d like to keep my head, thanks.”

“You are far too attached to it for all the good it doesn’t do you,” Arthur snorted, but he did turn around in the saddle. “Take us to water, then.”

It was remarkable how commanding Arthur could sound even when he wasn’t in charge of a situation, but that was something Merlin had gotten used to hearing a long time ago, even if it did make something deep inside him bristle. Merlin kicked the horse to a light gallop to chase after the orb that had begun floating off a little ways without them and the jostle threw him and Arthur together so that they were forced to sit pressed back to chest, the scent of mud and sweat and blood mixing with the smell of dew and dry grass that came through Merlin’s nose. Arthur sat stiff and unyielding in the saddle and he’d grown tall enough that the top of his head threatened to knock into Merlin’s chin with each impact of the horse’s hooves against the earth. It was awkward riding and Merlin could only hope that the journey to fresh water wouldn’t end with him getting a split lip.

The light led them toward the forest but turned off some distance before entering the trees, and they followed it a little ways past a hillock and then to a sparsely wooded dell hiding a spring fed by a small stream. Merlin stopped the horse near a strip of muddy beach where the two bodies of water converged and dismounted to lead the horse in closer by her bridle. He looped the lead around a tree branch then came back to offer Arthur a hand off the saddle. Even having made the gesture, Merlin was a little surprised when the Prince accepted the assistance, though he quickly moved from Merlin’s side to the water once his feet were firmly on the ground.

Merlin untied the mare and led her down the bank to let her drink, and from his position watched Arthur strip off his boots and roll up his breeches before he waded out ankle deep into the stream. Merlin nudged the blue orb to move in a little closer to Arthur to give him the benefit of the light, and when it seemed like the Prince was content to freeze on his own time he tugged the horse back up the shore and walked a short distance into the trees.

He’d just gotten a low fire started when Arthur reappeared, ball of light drifting dutifully behind him, and the timing was fortuitous as Merlin had been unprepared to use anything but magic to kindle the wood. Arthur had put his boots back on and was shivering in the midnight air, his hair wet and dark in the firelight, but his head and face were clean and he’d torn off his sleeve at the elbow to expose the gash running down the length of his left forearm. It spanned less than a hand’s length from the corner of his elbow and didn’t appear to be cut deep, but it had started bleeding again and there was a rivulet of blood running down the inside of his wrist. The skin on his face was unusually pale in contrast with the assortment of scratches on his nose, jaw, and neck, and the bruise under his left eye had swollen badly enough to force the eye shut.

Merlin felt his heart clench as he watched Arthur limp carefully around the fire pit, every cut and bruise a reminder that he’d failed to protect him from even the common thugs and thieves of the world. The Arthur he used to know could easily have taken out half of those men on his own and might have eluded capture entirely, but this younger version had been subdued and beaten and whisked away before any of them were aware of what had happened. Merlin couldn’t help thinking of how easily those injuries could have been avoided if he’d been there to lend his aid or been close enough to rescue Arthur before the kidnappers almost made it to Camelot’s border. Beneath the relief that Arthur would soon be safely back in Camelot his frustration simmered, loathing his inability to protect Arthur and keep him from harm every moment of the day. At least until Arthur could do half the job himself.

Merlin feared that feeling of helplessness, of having no real purpose more than anything. Only when he was protecting Arthur did his magic feel like the wonderful, righteous thing that Gaius had always said it was; without Arthur during those years of warfare the magic had always felt off, like a sore wound that never seemed to heal. It was a feeling that had taken him months to even articulate, let alone realize that the inner despair and darkness he felt was as much a product of his guilt as it was of the unbalance that seemed to be afflicting his magic. He could think of no other way to describe it when Arthur’s very existence signified the presence of his other half, the counterpoint to his being, the balance that kept him in check and made his magic feel whole. He’d never truly appreciated just what Arthur was to him until it was too late, when everything had already been destroyed in blood and fire.

Merlin crossed his arms inside his robes and angled his body away from the fire. His memories were darkening his mood more than he liked to admit, and it would be foolish to risk being seen in the light as Arthur lowered himself to sit on the opposite side. Merlin watched him closely as he scrubbed his uninjured hand through his wet hair, causing the strands to stick up haphazardly as they began to dry. Unaware of Merlin’s scrutiny, Arthur went to work on picking at one of the tears at the hem of his tunic until he’d managed to rip off a long strip of the fabric, using the length to wrap around the cut on his arm several times. Even with the tourniquet stemming the flow Merlin could see where the bandage began to stain red with blood. Arthur had bourn his injuries remarkably well, when even the act of speaking must have hurt the muscles in his face. Their current predicament denied Merlin even the simple act of tending to his wounds or touching him, something he hadn’t expected to resent and yet couldn’t seem to help feeling the longer he stared at Arthur’s bowed head. Arthur’s hate for magic prevented Merlin from offering any measure of relief from the pain and watching him suffer needlessly was just like twisting the knife deeper.

Having finished tending to his own injuries, Arthur slowly drew his knees up to his chest and rested his forehead on their knobby peaks, a quiet grunt escaping him that might have been from pain or exhaustion. Hearing the sound broke Merlin’s resolve to stay quiet during their short rest and he cleared his throat softly. “I could look at your injuries?” he offered hopefully.

“I don’t want your magic,” Arthur grumbled, his voice muffled and tired behind his legs.

Merlin sighed; the words still stung, even though he’d expected nothing less. “Thank you for reminding me, but I wasn’t talking about magic. There are plenty of herbal remedies that can work just as effectively. They might not be as efficient but I can assure you they normally don’t have the same sort of risks. If that’s at all comforting.”

Arthur turned his head so that he was facing Merlin across the fire. “What do you mean?”

Merlin shifted and sat up straighter, a little surprised that Arthur had even asked such a question. The last thing he would have expected to hear from the Prince about anything regarding magic was curiosity. “Well medicine is still an experimental practice. There’s always the chance that a diagnosis could be wrong or that a potion will only affect a symptom, rather than the cause. It can mean a lot of trial and error before a cure is found. Magic on the other hand can fix instantly what might take normal medicine months to do, but we know in this land being caught using magic means certain death. And in all honesty it’s a skill most people only have limited talents in, and that’s dangerous when the wrong spell can have unforeseen consequences.

“When you take that into consideration it’s not surprising that more people are turning away from magic and looking into studying medicine. Even for the most skilled sorcerer magic is a constant struggle for balance, and The Old Ways demand that there be equilibrium for everything that we do. Healing magic or anything that gives or takes a human life always comes at a great cost. Life energy is powerful and if not handled carefully it can… what?”

“Nothing, you just…” Arthur was staring openly at Merlin and had a peculiar frown over his features. “You remind me of someone I know.”

Merlin felt his breath leave him much more quickly than it had come in. Had he unintentionally given something away? Gaius was always on him about discretion and learning not to let his words run away from him and it seemed this time was no exception. Though Arthur wasn’t screaming about beheading his tutor, just watching Merlin shrewdly like he couldn’t quite put his finger on what had prompted the comparison.

Merlin licked his dry lips. He could pry a little, just to reassure himself that Arthur’s suspicions were unfounded. “Oh? Is he a learned man, this friend of yours?”

Arthur snorted, but it sounded closer to a laugh. “He doesn’t know when to shut up. But I suppose in his own way… he thinks himself very intelligent indeed.”

“But you don’t think so,” Merlin interpreted, and the feeling that he already knew who Arthur was speaking of grew stronger.

Arthur shrugged. “He’s passionate and scatterbrained, but sometimes I wonder if that’s really who he is. He makes you think he’s clueless and friendly and that there’s nothing more than what you see, but I think… sometimes I get the feeling he has secrets. Lots of them. He tries to hide it but it’s there if you know how to look.”

Merlin swallowed to loosen the sudden tightness in his throat. “That’s terribly perceptive of you.”

“Half the time we’re together he doesn’t notice I’m even looking at him. He’d rather spend time with a dusty old book than… and I don’t even know why I’m telling you this,” Arthur broke off with an accusatory glare.

Merlin spread his hands amiably, a picture of calm even though his heart was pounding. “No spells. You made me promise.”

By the gods, did he really come across as that great of a mystery, someone that even the Prince would take notice of and try to puzzle through? If Gaius got wind of this he’d string Merlin up by his thumbs and force him to leave Camelot for a few years and wouldn’t let him come back until he’d learned how to be better at subterfuge. Arthur was far too close to the King and if he was beginning to question Merlin, or have doubts about him, it could very easily spell disaster for Merlin’s self-appointed task of saving the future.

“This man you know,” Merlin put forth lightly. “You don’t think he’s dangerous, do you?”

Arthur had moved his chin to rest atop his right arm and was currently directing his glare toward the fire. There was a long moment before he answered, and then quite unexpectedly he grinned. Or as well as he could with half of his face swollen. “Only so far as his absentmindedness can lead to disaster, and the only one likely to come to harm will be him. He speaks without thought to decorum, has no concept of station or rank and no sense of propriety. He’s insufferable but he’s never been anything but sincere. When he tells me something is for my own good… I cannot help but believe him.”

Arthur’s words gave way to silence between them, though the night was alive with the sound of bullfrogs in the stream and the snap of the logs and the hum of insects drawn near by the heat and light of their campfire. The stars were clear and bright where they weren’t obscured by the tenuous column of smoke, pinpricks of luminosity against the velvet backdrop of the sky, and Merlin felt a curious lightness lifting an unnamed weight from deep in his bones. Arthur’s words were warming him far more rapidly than the simple fire between them and he curled his soul around the sensation, held it close and turned it over in wonder.

Perhaps a little of the homesickness he’d always felt deep down and pushed away as nothing but a fact that couldn’t be changed was finally ebbing away from the gloom of his conscience. Unconditional love and acceptance was a condition that he’d grown up believing he could never expect from anyone but his mother, not until Gaius had given it to him without reservation for almost two years. But those were ties and comforts he’d long ago left behind. He’d had years to become used to being the outside observer, the hand that moved mountains and thrashed the enemy, to being the faceless name of evil. He’d grown familiar with the shadows and the solitude that came with it, but Arthur’s revelation had unexpectedly knocked aside a brick in the foundation of his self-image. Not once, then or now, had he suspected that Arthur might be… fond of him. If the hood had not masked his face as well as it did he may have been accused of smiling dumbstruck.

Though he was more than curious to probe further into Arthur’s opinions of him, Merlin had to forcibly pull his thoughts away from delaying their journey any longer for the sake of personal gain. “Come along, sire,” he announced briskly, standing up and brushing down his backside. “It’s time to take you home.”

“I did tell you not to call me that,” Arthur grumbled, but he was pushing off the ground with his good hand and dusting off the seat of his britches. Together they used the sides of their boots to push enough dirt over the fire to smoother and douse the flames, and as they finished Merlin saw pensive frown on Arthur’s face in the last flicker of the dying embers.

“What is it?” he asked.

“Nothing,” Arthur said but made no move to step away from the smoldering pit. Merlin could see in the dark outline of his profile that he was turned and facing toward the southeast, where Camelot lay a few hours away.

“You’ll be there soon enough,” Merlin reassured him, hoping he was interpreting the Prince’s silence and speculation correctly.

“If you keep your promise,” Arthur said, but there was no bite or hint of accusation to the words. He still sounded distant and preoccupied, and Merlin wondered what had brought on the change.

“I know you don’t trust me because I use magic, but I will be happy to prove you wrong. Magic is a tool, like a sword or a trade, and not all who use magic use it for evil. Some use it to cure the sick, to heal wounds, to make warmth, to create protection for their loved-”

“Shut up,” Arthur snapped.

Merlin clamped his mouth shut and turned away with an inward sigh, resigning himself to more stony silences from the Prince as he looked off to where the orb of light had drifted toward the horse. “My apologies.”

Merlin listened to the wind and the gurgle of the spring and felt a chill begin to seep in where the warmth of the fire had briefly occupied. The air was heavy with the smell of burnt ash and mulch, and he heard the long slide of Arthur’s boot across the dirt, slow and deliberate.

“Magic could have put that fire out,” Arthur said after a long pause. His tone was quiet, and he sounded befuddled by his own words. “We wouldn’t have gotten dirt on our boots or breathed in the smoke. It would just… go away.”

Merlin’s heart thumped hard in surprise. He couldn’t help turning back to look at Arthur, the boy’s profile only a dim outline in the starlight. “Yes. It would have,” Merlin agreed carefully.

“Is that why you do it?” Arthur demanded, and in the dark Merlin couldn’t see his face or where his eyes were directed.

“Sometimes,” Merlin admitted. “Sometimes it’s laziness, or because it’s familiar. But if I had to choose, if I had to keep it locked away except for one thing, I’d always use my magic for the one thing that really mattered.”

Arthur said nothing, and Merlin could feel that his thoughts were far off even though he was still standing next to him. But he was listening and he’d asked about magic a second time of his own volition, two things that Merlin had honestly never thought to see come from the Prince.

Merlin drew in a deep breath. “I’d never stop using it to save someone’s life.”

Merlin expected there to be another outburst. He braced for it, but it never came. Arthur remained unusually silent and still, and it was almost a minute before Merlin heard him release a shaky exhale. “That would seem like a good reason to.”

Merlin almost stepped back in surprise. The words were no less astonishing than if they had been spoken by Uther Pendragon himself. Arthur was committing treason simply by uttering his thoughts, by rejecting the doctrine Uther had been pouring into the head’s of Camelot’s citizens for years. Merlin almost couldn’t believe his ears.

But Arthur was not an idiot; compulsive, bullying, egotistical yes, but never stupid. It was impossible that he did not realize the significance of his words, of the disloyalty he was demonstrating simply by standing next to Merlin, listening to him and conceding that magic could be used for good. He knew as well as Merlin did of how grave the consequences would be if Uther ever knew. But even if Uther never caught wind of his son’s thoughts, if Arthur somehow managed not to reveal his opinions, if Arthur could be made to see, to believe that magic was not all evil…

It could change everything.

Merlin realized his hands were trembling and he stuffed them deeper into the folds of his robes. In all his wildest imaginings, in all the ways he’d wished and dreamed to find some way for the future to be different, he never thought he’d come to the crossroads while standing by a stream with a stolen horse and an injured Prince daring to question the core of his upbringing. This was a side of Arthur that he had all but dismissed as his own foolish imaginings, when the hints tolerance he’d first glimpsed him capable of had been quickly swept away by a string of incidents that seemed to further ground Arthur in the notion that magic was corrupting and wielded only by those seeking to do harm. Making Arthur into a wise king that could be more open-minded toward people of other religions, including those who practiced magic, had held fast as Merlin’s best hope for a brighter future since he began Arthur’s education. But his words tonight cast a whole new light on the Prince’s inner thoughts. Perhaps it was his age and inexperience, or perhaps the years had not had a chance to rob Arthur of his nature to question and critique this singular topic, but for whatever the reason, it was the first sign Merlin had that he might find a way in before Uther’s dominating opinions corralled Arthur’s to completely match his own.

Merlin was glad that his voice didn’t shake with any of the emotion he was feeling at that moment. “You could never admit such a thing to the King.”

“You think I don’t realize that?” Arthur nearly shouted, his mood fiercely changeable as always. He stomped away a few paces and spun on his heel to face Merlin. “A sorcerer saved my life tonight and I did not kill him the moment I had the chance to. Every moment I have let you live, I am committing treason against my father and Camelot’s laws. You do not need to tell me this.”

“I know, I’m sorry,” Merlin said. “But I want you to know… I’m grateful. That you did spare my life. And listened to me. I didn’t set out to preach to you, but I won’t lie to you either.”

Arthur nodded once and Merlin could see the white of his open eye reflecting back the silver light. “I owe you my life, sorcerer, and I would not be the honorable man my father has taught me to be if I did not acknowledge that. There would be no justice in taking your life. You have placed me in a debt to you, and I will honor it fairly. A life for a life.”

“And after?” Merlin couldn’t help asking. “Once you’ve returned to Camelot, what then?”

“I don’t know,” Arthur admitted. “The law must be upheld, I cannot go against it. But I have realized that there may be… circumstances that exist, where magic might be used for good intentions. I have no doubt it is a destructive, powerful force that can bring great harm in the wrong hands, but I have seen men and women put to death for kindling a fire on a cold night, or placing a charm on their door, or healing a child, and I cannot in good conscience accept that death was the proper answer for their crimes.”

“You sound almost wise, for your age,” Merlin said fondly. He could feel a smile stretch across his face that was wider and more relaxed than any he’d dared to show in years.

“And how old are you?” Arthur snapped back.

“Twenty-four, or I will be this mid-winter,” Merlin replied. Enough time had passed that his birthday would have come and gone in the future, but here in the present there were still several months left. It was liable to give him a headache if he tried to think too hard about time travel and things like age and birthdays. He turned and began walking toward where the horse was tied up. “And probably ten times smarter than you are. I am a powerful sorcerer, after all.”

Arthur limped along behind. “If we’re drawing comparisons, my experience is rather limited. You could be the biggest idiot of them all and there’d be no way to know the difference, so I am forced to refute your statement until I know otherwise.”

Merlin laughed unexpectedly as he unknotted the horse’s lead and hoisted himself into the saddle. “I see little gets by you, young Prince.”

Merlin extended his hand, more out of reflex than anything else, but was surprised when Arthur accepted it and allowed himself to be lifted astride the horse and settled in front of him on the saddle. The careful distance between their bodies was absent this time, and the warmth it generated between them was welcome on the cold night.

“Your arm, are you sure I can’t, very quickly…?” Merlin pressed once more.

“No,” Arthur said, not unkindly, which was more than Merlin had expected. “I appreciate your offer, but my ideas about the nature of magic and my willingness to trust a spell being cast on me are two different things. It is nothing that cannot wait until we arrive at Camelot.”

“Very well,” Merlin sighed, but he was grinning as he turned the horse around.

They rode hard with the orb keeping pace; out of the small valley and across a narrow plain before entering the western woods, the light brightening the path in front of them and exposing obstacles and low hanging branches and helpfully keeping anything curious at bay. Merlin chose not to mention that this was the very same forest he and Arthur had met outside of for the first time (or second, depending upon your perspective) when he’d arrived at Camelot those many months ago. The time passed quickly and Merlin knew that one hour had already slid well toward two when the light suddenly swerved and halted in mid-air, he and Arthur and the horse continuing past it before coming to a hard stop a few yards beyond.

“Why did it stop?” Arthur asked as Merlin redirected the horse to return to the hanging point of light.

“I don’t know. It’s never done that before, and we’re not at Camelot yet-”

Then came the barking, a dozen hounds judging by the volume of the distant sound, and Arthur sat up straighter in surprise. “Those are my father’s guards,” he realized.

Merlin quickly banished the light. “Then they’ve probably seen us, or will pick up on our scent soon enough. This is where we part ways, sire.”

“What?” Arthur twisted in the saddle, his face shrouded in darkness though Merlin could feel the stir of warm air on his chin. “You promised to take me to Camelot.”

“And I would have, but your father’s men will sooner think me a kidnapper than your savior. You must ride to them alone. Tell them you stole the horse from the bandits. Better yet, say you escaped, knocked out a guard or got the ropes loose and stole a knife, just something that doesn’t involve me. The less your father hears about sorcery’s hand it in, the better.”

“I’m sure I’ll think of something,” Arthur said with an air of exasperation, no doubt toward Merlin’s efforts at ordering him around. Merlin was considering a terse reply when they both stiffened as the barking grew closer, this time joined by the sound of shouting voices.

Merlin leaned forward to place the horse’s reins in Arthur’s hands, their fingers brushing and tangling briefly in the darkness, then scooted back to prepare to dismount. “If you’re patient, maybe someday that friend of yours will tell you all his secrets,” he murmured as he slid off the back of the horse. He couldn’t resist slipping a hand against Arthur’s back on the way down, feeling the narrow frame shiver as he pushed a small bit of magic through, just enough to dull the pain and make the healing process a little bit faster.

“Perhaps…” Arthur acknowledged, sounding short of breath, and he moved back on the saddle to take hold of the stirrups with his feet as Merlin landed on the ground. Merlin stepped away with a pat to the mare’s flank but was halted by Arthur’s last question. “Sorcerer, before you go tell me this. Why did you do it? Why rescue me? Was it to gain some reward? For leverage over Camelot? For revenge?”

“None of those reasons, sire. I wish for no reward at all. Your life is worth ten of mine.” It was the simple truth and one that Merlin had no reservations confessing. It had taken him a year to bring himself to say the words to Arthur the first time but age and experience had taught him that second chances were not a gift to be wasted, and this time he would tell it to Arthur as many times as he needed to.

That silenced Arthur, and the mare stamped her front hoof uneasily as the sound of the hounds and men drew near. Merlin turned to walk away.

“Will I ever see you again?” Arthur asked in a rush, raising his voice slightly.

Merlin had put a tree between them by that point and he stilled, debating the wisdom of answering that question with any sort of honesty. The shouting grew loud enough to make out cries of, ‘Sire! Sire!’ and Merlin gathered up the hem of his robe so he could start jogging, leaving Arthur behind without a reply.

Once he’d put some distance between himself and Arthur, Merlin stopped to throw back his hood and take a deep, unconfined breath of the cold night air. The woods were still rife with the noise of the search party but would be mere minutes before they would find each other and Arthur would be whisked away back to Camelot. Merlin lifted his right hand toward the sky, squeezing his eyes shut as he began incanting the words that would get him there first. It was his least favorite transportation spell, but he had to get back to the castle before Arthur did.

“ _Biddan ástelle me on Camelot_!”

A strong whirlwind took shape around him, lifting the edges of his robe and sleeves until they were flapping around him madly, and the howl of the wind grew near deafening, pulling at his clothing and his hair and making his skin sting from the force of it. Merlin felt himself lifted from the ground, caught up in the maelstrom, spun round and round, and the trees and the stars blurred until he could hear and see and feel no more.

Merlin came to at the sound of a muffled crash and blinked open his eyes. The room he’d appeared in was almost pitch dark but there was enough dim starlight coming through the windows that he could discern he was kneeling in a pile of books, their covers open and their pages blown askew, and that something smelled like the leftover remnants of dinner. Merlin stood slowly, his knees wobbling as he reached out to brace his hand on a nearby shelf, and swallowed back the urge to vomit all over his shoes. He wasn’t consciously aware of invoking a spell as the candles around the room began to light their wicks, but they allowed Merlin to see that he had managed to return to the tower.

The candles’ light also revealed that there was a rather impressive mess on the floor, as his arrival had blown most of the books off his shelves and overturned his chairs and scattered the few scrolls not weighted down on his table. Merlin stumbled his way to one of the closer windows and opened the casement for Archimedes when he returned, then turned a resigned look toward the mess around his feet.

“Well go on then, clean yourselves up,” he commanded wearily. Nothing moved, though Merlin thought he saw a few pages of vellum flutter out of the corner of his eye. He sighed and scrubbed a hand through his windblown hair. “Alright look, I’m sorry I caused such a mess. I was a bit short on time and there was no other way to get back here quickly. I’ll help out a bit, so no hard feelings yeah?”

That got a response, and several of his books righted themselves and began to march dutifully across the floor toward the bookcases they’d been knocked out of. Merlin bent to pick up the parchment rolls that had gotten blown off the table with his arrival and set the two chairs upright around it. Dinner’s leftovers were a nasty mess and he sent the whole lot straight to the kitchens with a wave of magic from his hand, sure that there would be no one awake to see the plates appear this late at night. One of his earthen cups had broken on the floor and that too was repaired with magic, though the drain Merlin could feel even from those small spells was surprising. He’d used more magic that night than he had in months, and the wave of exhaustion hitting him was brutal now that he’d come down off the high of emotions and adrenaline.

With the mess mostly cleaned up Merlin finally wrestled himself out of his cloak and tossed it to the floor, the color shimmering from black back to deep red as it fell from his body. He moved to one of the closed windows that looked out over the castle courtyard and braced his arms on the stone so he could lean his head against their folded tops. He could see that dawn’s approach had already shifted the sky from jet black to a deeper blue and that toward the east the stars were rapidly fading into the velvet curtain. There was no sign yet of Arthur or the guards that had been on the verge of discovering him, and he felt uneasy with the thought of crawling into bed before he knew for certain that Arthur was safe within the castle walls. Resolved to wait out the Prince’s return, Merlin yawned and shifted to find a more comfortable leaning position against the window sill.

He’d begun to doze when Archimedes returned, the scratch of his claws on the stone waking him immediately. The owl hopped through the tower window he’d left open and coasted the short distance across the room to his perch, and Merlin watched a bit enviously as his friend settled with only a brief rustle of feathers before his eyes closed and his breathing deepened. Merlin could sympathize with the owl’s exhaustion, and he yawned again as he turned back to the view he had of the open courtyard below. It was getting more troublesome to keep his eyes open and there was still no sign of Arthur and his escort. He could see over the castle rooftops that the eastern horizon had lightened toward a softer blue and couldn’t help the pang of worry that clenched his stomach. Arthur hadn’t been that far out from Camelot but the interminable wait and his tiredness were compounding to give rise to unpleasant thoughts of the Prince somehow failing to meet up with the search party. It was almost certainly an unnecessary fear, but Merlin knew his anxiety could no more be helped than the sun could help rising. He’d find no peace until Arthur was back, secure and within Camelot’s protected walls once more.

Merlin didn’t realize he’d fallen asleep again until he came awake with a start, blinking and unsure what had woken him or when he’d nodded off. His arms were cold and ached where they were pressed against the stone and the corners of his eyes had crusted unpleasantly. He lifted a hand to rub away the sleep, squinting at the bloated sun that was just peeking over the horizon, when the distant barking of dogs drew his attention down toward the flagstones below. To his immense relief he saw several armed men in the courtyard and a group of guards hauling away the hounds on their leads, while in front of the castle steps a single horse stood by as the rider was helped down off its back. The pre-dawn light was hardly enough illumination to reveal little more than silhouetted figures moving around, but Merlin didn’t need anything more to know that Arthur had returned. He watched the group of men and the figure being half carried between them ascend the steps and disappear inside the castle, and it wasn’t until the last guard had cleared the area that he turned from the window.

His bed was only a few feet away but it took him a few stumbling steps to reach it. The candles in the room were going out one by one, and Merlin collapsed on the bedding with a soft groan of exhaustion and stiff back muscles. His late vigil had probably doomed him to sleep in until well past noon, but he couldn’t find the energy to be concerned. Arthur was back and probably already in Gaius’ capable hands, and the relief he felt with that knowledge was warmer than any blanket or beam of sunlight. He was asleep before the final candle snuffed itself out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Glossary:**
> 
> _Forthræse stefnas ond wricen menn oth helle_ – Rise up roots and deliver these men to Hell
> 
>  _Wætere_ – Merlin uses the term for leading cows to water, shame on him.
> 
>  _Biddan ástelle me on Camelot!_ – I beseech, fly me to Camelot!


	10. Chapter 10

News of the Prince’s kidnapping spread like wildfire on the eve of his return, the tale passing rapidly from the castle to the lower town of how he’d valiantly fought his way out of his captors’ clutches, stolen a horse and startled a contingent of guards on patrol searching for the very same men that had taken him. Fewer knew the true conclusion to the story, of how he’d walked into Uther’s throne room at dawn and fainted dead away at the King’s feet, or how Uther had personally carried his son into the Prince’s room and sat at his bedside while Gaius dressed his wounds. In another lifetime Merlin would have been there too, standing in as Gaius’ second pair of hands and watching Arthur with a sick feeling of worry and a heavy conscience for failing in his duty. It was just as well that he’d been sound asleep at the time; it excused him from being asked to pretend that he was unaffected by the sight of Arthur so helpless and frail, pale and bleeding upon his crisp bedsheets. His magic had been given a rare taste of liberation while rescuing Arthur and Merlin could no longer say for certain that even Uther’s presence would be enough of a deterrent to prevent it from reaching out to the Prince, to stop it from wrapping him up in every ancient protection he knew and erasing every scar and bruise from sight.

By the time Merlin did awake the chaotic morning had come and gone unnoticed beneath him, and in the afternoon light he washed away the dirt stuck under his nails and pointedly ignored the way the water mostly came away tinged red. He donned his disguise and ventured toward the general direction of Gaius’ room, steps dragging as he devoured an oversized sandwich from the kitchens. The cooks’ capacity for taking pity on his slim frame seemed to follow him no matter what year he arrived in, and for once the extra helpings were appreciated when the prior night’s activities had left him ravenous for something more than just a quick morning meal. But it was more than hunger slowing his gait, and in all honesty Merlin wasn’t looking forward to facing up to his behavior toward Gaius the night before. Even with the physician’s reluctant blessing Merlin knew he may have further breached the distance between them by running out the way he had, and losing the man’s trust was now a possibility he wished he’d thought through better at the time.

Gaius was in when Merlin stepped into the room, still brushing crumbs from his tunic, and they stared at each other for a long moment across the open space before the elder man came forward and encased Merlin in a rare, sudden hug. It ended before Merlin could wipe the surprise off his face and he was left blinking dumbly at the amused smile Gaius gave him.

“Camelot owes you a debt of gratitude,” Gaius said, clapping Merlin once more on the shoulders. “Thank you for returning Arthur to us. I’m only sorry that no one else can know of it.”

It took a moment for the muscles in Merlin’s face to work properly again, but when they did he knew his smile was reminiscent of the one that Arthur used to say made him look like a maudlin simpleton. There wasn’t much to do except to shrug at the praise, as the circumstances were hardly anything that Merlin hadn’t experienced a dozen times over before. It was enough that at least one person could give him thanks, but knowing that Gaius wasn’t going to verbally lash him for his disrespect was a greater relief at the moment. Saving Arthur’s life didn’t negate the years of death and destruction he’d dealt to Camelot and its armies, or the lives he’d taken in the name of protecting Arthur both then and the night before. Whatever pleasant illusions Gaius might have held about his nature and the lengths he was willing to go to, Merlin didn’t mind letting him keep them for the time being.

They settled in for their afternoon tea, and once their cups were full Gaius leaned forward with a hushed air, eyes darting once toward the closed door that separated them from the rest of the castle.

“Did you find out who they were, Merlin?”

Merlin shook his head reluctantly, because he’d wondered about the same thing while chasing Arthur’s trail and there had been little opportunity for interrogation during the rescue. And after seeing the state of the campsite, the assortment of weapons and well-kept horses and supply bags, he could no longer think of them as common thugs that had hit a stroke of luck by nabbing a Prince.

“When I found them they were heading toward Camelot’s western border with Wessex. They were well-armed, trained men Gaius, I’m sure of it. I thought it odd how they were able to get Arthur from what amounts to Camelot’s doorstep. The royal family’s used those woods for years for hunting precisely because they’re so close to the city and the roads are well traveled and well protected. People would have heard about it sooner if a group of bandits were causing trouble in the area.”

“My thoughts exactly,” Gaius agreed. “Did you hear anything when you found them? A part of their plan? Or discover anything significant among their possessions?”

Merlin spared a moment to wince inwardly, because those were the kind of sound suggestions he’d been too preoccupied to follow through with after finding Arthur, and he had a feeling that Gaius wasn’t going to be as obliging after he learned just how much had been destroyed in the skirmish.

Gaius didn’t disappoint, and once Merlin finished relating the details of Arthur’s rescue, including the fact that nearly everything in the camp had been left as smoldering ruins, the reprimands came pouring out like he hadn’t been lauded as a hero just minutes earlier. Merlin could almost recite along word for word in his head as Gaius declared him a compulsive idiot with the intelligence bordering that of a newt when it came to dealing with Arthur, never mind that he possessed no talent whatsoever in reconnaissance or obtaining valuable information. Merlin did regret not being able to provide any further details about Arthur’s kidnappers, but he took Gaius’ scolding patiently and only hoped he looked properly contrite even though he didn’t feel it. When Gaius seemed satisfied, or at least out of breath, Merlin gave voice to one fact it hadn’t occurred to him to point out until then.

“Gaius, I know you don’t want me talking about the future, but Arthur never mentioned being kidnapped as a child in my time. How could things happen that differently when I’ve only been here for a few months and I’ve done practically nothing?”

Gaius raised an eyebrow. “Would Arthur have told you if he was? You were a servant to him for two years, but sharing something of that nature would probably be irrelevant to your station. Perhaps he didn’t wish to speak of it.”

“But if that’s so, then who rescued him? I’m certain I wasn’t there that time around.”

This was about the moment Gaius got that look on his face that once upon a time used to make Merlin want to crawl under the nearest table and ignore the outside world for a while, magical monsters and cursed gems and dying crops be damned. “Merlin. Was Camelot ever at war with any of the neighboring kingdoms?”

“Um, probably? What’s that got to do with anything?”

“Think, Merlin, please.”

“Okay... well, when I was at court Uther was always signing peace treaties and trying to unite the kingdoms to stop the fighting. I don’t know who they’d gone to war with in the past. Arthur did like to brag a lot about his experience on the field though. He said he was pretty young the first time he led his father’s troops into battle, but I’m certain he was full of himself.”

“Would it be possible – consider this with me for a moment – that Arthur was, indeed, kidnapped by a group working for King Odin. If you had not intervened and rescued him then most likely they would have been well across the border by the time Camelot’s troops discovered their whereabouts. Uther would have had no choice but to pay the ransom or go to war to get his son back.”

“But even if he’d paid the ransom,” Merlin reasoned, picking up on the thread. “Uther wouldn’t have just let it go. He’d be furious. And Arthur would have jumped on the chance to fight back. They’d treated him horribly, Gaius. Uther would have gone to war for sure.”

“Yes, Merlin. Which means, even though you weren’t aware of it, you have already drastically changed the course of history for this kingdom. You may have stopped a potential war, though it’s impossible to say for certain what the repercussions might be from this. Wessex could try again or invent a whole new tactic intended to weaken Camelot. You will have to be extra vigilant.”

“Bugger,” Merlin said, and Gaius wholeheartedly agreed.

Merlin learned afterward that Arthur was being confined to his bed, and by proxy his room, for the next week while his wounds healed and he gathered his strength. Merlin wisely did not mention that Arthur had been perfectly capable of swinging a sword at his head the night before, but he did jump in to set the record straight when Gaius remarked on how quickly the Prince’s injuries seemed to be on the mend. There were some things he simply refused to let Arthur take the credit for.

Merlin also offered to deliver Gaius’ next round of medicine to Arthur’s room that afternoon, a half-thought plan in his mind about using it as an excuse to greet the boy face to face and gauge in the light of day how much the ordeal and their conversation might have affected him. But Johnson was back in fine form when Merlin made it to Arthur’s chambers, despite what camaraderie they’d formed, and Merlin was granted only a brief peek inside while the servant accepted the bottle through the crack he’d opened in the door. He could see that Arthur was awake and seated near his bed by the window, his face a patchwork of ugly bruises and his arm wrapped in a clean linen sling, looking out the beveled glass with a droop to his shoulders that Merlin had rarely witnessed from him during his time as Arthur’s manservant. It settled a knot in his chest that Merlin was beginning to grow more familiar with, the overwhelming urge to reach out and wipe away the shadows under Arthur’s eyes and mend every abrasion on his skin. Arthur was so young, too young to carry that much knowledge of what horrors the world was capable of, and it took everything in Merlin not to fly off at that moment to Wessex and wrap his hands around King Odin’s neck. In the end all he could do was tell Johnson that he would not be giving Arthur lessons for the week and leave before the blooming shade of gold in his eyes could give him away.

Though Merlin was optimistic that his true identity still remained unknown, he kept a vigilant ear for the sound of running footsteps that might signal the approach of the guard intent on carting him off to the dungeons over the next few days. The official story running through the castle’s rumor mill of Arthur’s brave escape had no mention of a sorcerer in the recounting, which surely would have sent Uther into an uproar, and Merlin was grateful that it appeared Arthur had maintained his silence. It still raised a number of questions about Arthur’s personal thoughts regarding his rescue and Merlin found himself wondering more than once whether Arthur had stayed true to his word because of the life debt owed to the man that had saved him or if there truly was a deeper rebellion against Uther’s laws on magic seated within the Prince. Merlin wanted to hope that it was a sign of better things to come between them, of the possibility of a path that might lead to him revealing his true identity to Arthur without the fear of being beheaded or chased from Camelot ahead of a sword. With the clarity of hindsight in mind, Merlin knew that nothing could be rushed when it came to securing Arthur’s confidence and acceptance of magic; even with Arthur’s willingness to accept that magic was not all evil, they had a long road ahead of them.

Merlin spotted Arthur on the practice field several times toward the week’s end, and Gaius did nothing but grumble when he inquired about Arthur’s unexpected appearances on the lawn. Merlin had always wondered if Arthur’s inability to obey the physician’s orders extended farther back than his arrival at Camelot, and here was living proof of his suspicions, swinging a sword even while his arm was still bandaged. And maybe he was spending a lot of his time watching Arthur but he was most certainly not _hovering_ , no matter what Gaius accused him of. It was simply in his best interests to make sure that Arthur wasn’t going to trip over his own boots and add another black eye to match the one he already had, or more alarmingly find out that Arthur had acquired a change of heart and decided that sorcerers were indeed a scourge that needed to be wiped off the earth. Merlin had kind of gotten used to his new home and his bookshelves and he would be very sorry to leave them behind when he packed up and fled for his life, because there was no way Gaius would let him stay in Camelot once the hunt began.

But Arthur continued to act relatively normal after the whole ordeal, even going so far as to bag a brace of rabbits for the kitchens a couple of days after his confinement officially ended (accompanied by a lethal contingent of guards no less, which made the success of the hunt even more amazing), and with how often he was appearing on the training fields and how faded the bruises and cuts on his face had become, people began to stop looking twice at him when he passed by.

Though Merlin should have picked up their lessons again something seemed to hold him back just shy of seeking Arthur out to remind him of the books and material that had been left mostly untouched on his table for over a week. He was no longer quite sure why he was avoiding the Prince or why his tongue tended to go heavy in his mouth when he spotted a glimpse of blond hair in the distance, but he suspected that much of it was due to the fact that the thought of deliberately broaching the topic of magic still had the power to make him freeze up with dread. He’d spent too many years fearing the repercussions and watching the worst outcome happen again and again, too many times heard Arthur proclaim at every turn that magic was nothing but the tool of liars and deceivers. Thanks to Arthur frequently using him as a scapegoat and Gaius’ constant warnings for secrecy, Merlin had been given no choice but to lie over and over, until the words began to slip out before he’d even realized he’d uttered them. He’d watched himself grow immune to the twinges of guilt until half-truths and flat out falsehoods had become the easiest to confess, and without even realizing it he’d transformed himself into the very sorcerer that Uther had raised his son to hate and mistrust. By the time his secret was revealed it had been too late to untangle the web of lies that had become the basis of their friendship, and Merlin had been powerless to do anything but watch it shatter and cut deep into the wounds of his deepest shame. Hindsight told him he needed to break the habit if he wanted to avoid a repeat of future events, but Merlin was realizing that changing his nature was something easier said than done.

The situation got taken out of his hands one morning a few days later when Merlin was rudely awoken by loud pounding on his door, long after dawn but still early enough to be considered prime sleeping time. Since Arthur was usually at training until noon, Merlin grumbled and entertained sleepy thoughts of gagging an unsuspecting pageboy as he cast on his glamour and opened the door.

“Good morning, Merlin. I hope I’m not intruding?” Arthur asked, stepping past Merlin without waiting for an answer.

Merlin stared and blinked, and for a brief moment was utterly convinced he was still dreaming. “What?” he asked dumbly. “Uh, what are you doing here?”

Arthur took one of the chairs by the table and sat down with a sigh of the inconvenienced that needed to explain everything. “I’m here for my lessons of course, or have you forgotten why you’re being allowed to stay in the tower?”

“I thought it was because your father didn’t like me,” Merlin said without thinking as he shut the door.

Arthur, luckily, only smirked. “But think of all the things you can do, so far away from anyone that will notice.”

“Er, I suppose,” Merlin agreed uncertainly. He stood by the door for a moment, hands swinging uselessly and not quite sure what he was supposed to be doing next. His bed covers still looked warm and inviting from across the room, but he had a feeling that crawling back under him would get him a pitcher of water poured over his head (it wouldn’t be the first time, either). The floor was cold against Merlin’s bare feet so he walked across the room to grab his boots from the foot of the bed, shrugging his robes on to ward off the morning chill before he joined Arthur at the table. The Prince was already pawing through a few of the books Merlin had left scattered about the night before, and Merlin could hardly bring himself to care that two of them near the edge were on old magical rites using runes. He yawned deeply and wished for a cup of tea to take off the edge of sleep.

His eyes widened when he heard a soft clatter. Behind Arthur’s right shoulder his cup and kettle were hovering above the side table and floating in their direction in answer to his unconscious summons. Arthur’s head was bent over an open volume, oblivious to the noise and Merlin’s sudden, wide-eyed panic. Merlin made a sharp motion in their direction and both cup and kettle hesitated in mid-air. Arthur looked up, puzzled, and Merlin was forced to quickly drop his hand and prop it under his chin. He smiled with what he hoped was a _floating crockery? What floating crockery?_ look of complete innocence. The cup and kettle began slowly, if not somewhat grudgingly, heading back to their original place.

“Are you alright?” Arthur asked. He began to turn around to look in the direction Merlin had been gesturing.

“Fine! Thanks,” Merlin said quickly, refocusing Arthur’s attention on him. “I’m just very tired. You’re here awfully early… did something happen at training?”

Arthur shrugged. “Nothing in particular. I felt like taking the morning off.”

“Are your… how are your injuries?” Merlin asked, concerned.

“They’re _fine_ , Merlin. When you are appointed court physician I will be happy to discuss them with you in intimate detail, but until then you’ll have to mind your own business like everyone else.”

“Alright, no need to get testy,” Merlin huffed. He yawned again. “Hmm, are you sure you want to do your lessons this early? I haven’t even had breakfast yet.”

“It will be lunch soon enough,” Arthur informed him, shutting one of the books and setting it aside to pick up another. He’d already found his wax tablet somewhere and was pressing a string of Latin text into the soft surface with his stylus.

“What are we even working on?” Merlin wondered aloud, tilting his head in an attempt to read one of the books Arthur had open.

“Plato’s Republic.”

“No we’re not,” Merlin said, confused. “I’ve never given you that to read.”

“I know, I took it.”

“You what? How? When?”

Arthur sighed and looked up. “I borrowed it from your collection last week. You weren’t here, the door was unlocked, I let myself in. Really, Merlin, you’ve been absent so much I thought you’d be grateful I’ve shown some initiative.”

“But I always lock my door,” Merlin protested sullenly, and with no small amount of confusion.

“I don’t see why it’s necessary. No one’s going to find anything worth stealing in your dusty books,” Arthur said. He glanced up at Merlin and smirked. “Besides, you’re the same man that didn’t notice when he wore the same breeches three days straight and with the same suspicious stain on the groin. Surely you’ve also forgotten to lock the door a few times.”

Merlin hated that his cheeks still flushed the tiniest bit at the memory. “You know perfectly well it was just tea. And no, I’m fairly certain I’ve always locked it.” Magically, too, but Merlin wisely did not mention that part.

Arthur spread his hands and shrugged. “Then I have no other explanation. Really, Merlin. If you’re that worried I’ll nick your underthings again, I think you’re underestimating my frightful genius. I would never pull the same prank twice.”

Merlin snorted in disbelief, which got him another smirk from the Prince. It still didn’t mean he wouldn’t be testing new spells for locking his door in the future.

Merlin took advantage of the next few minutes of silence to rub the crusty remains of sleep from the corners of his eyes and yawn several more times as the dregs slowly receded from his mind. Archimedes had not yet returned from his nighttime hunt and it would not be the first time the owl had chosen to sleep out in the forest, but Merlin found himself missing his friend’s familiar presence. They’d been nearly inseparable the first few days after Arthur’s rescue in the swamp and Merlin had fussed like a mother hen, checking for burns or missing feathers, and Archimedes had taken the treatment with mostly good grace; he seemed to understand that Merlin had been genuinely worried for his well being. They’d gone into battle many times together but Merlin had never been comfortable seeing Archimedes place himself so close to danger where an errant arrow or an ignorant enemy might cut him down in the blink of an eye. Merlin had grown weary of seeing the people he cared for stolen from his life.

Arthur must have noticed Merlin staring wistfully at the empty perch in the corner. His words roused Merlin from his thoughts with a start. “Where’s Archimedes? Is he alright?” he asked.

“What? Yes, he’s fine.” Merlin rubbed absently at his upper lip, feeling the coarse hair of his beard. He was starting to get tired of wearing the same itchy facial hair and he’d shaved off his own stubble weeks ago just to feel the change more noticeably when he used the disguise. Now the extra hair was simply becoming annoying. “He probably just decided to sleep in the forest again. He doesn’t always come back.”

“You probably snore too much for his tastes,” Arthur grinned, and he laughed when Merlin shot him a glare.

“I do not snore. That’s an unfounded accusation.”

Arthur continued to chuckle. “All old men snore. That’s probably the real reason my father put you out here, to keep you from waking the rest of the castle!”

“I do not snore and I am not ol-” Merlin caught himself and pressed his lips together. “Sire, you are getting distracted from your studies again.”

“I am taking my studies quite seriously. You on the other hand have been sitting there half-asleep this entire time. What happened, Merlin, have a late night?” Arthur was sporting the kind of lewd smirk that Merlin was almost flabbergasted to see on his face when he looked so young. Arthur was barely old enough to lift a crossbow, let alone make impudent jokes. And yet Merlin still found himself starting to blush.

“I had nothing of the sort, and even if I did, it wouldn’t be any of your business!” he snapped, perhaps a bit too brusquely, judging by how quickly Arthur’s grin disappeared.

“I never figured you for a prude, professor,” Arthur said acerbically.

Merlin chose to ignore the unfounded remark. “Did you have any questions about the text, sire?”

Arthur shook his head and went back to reading, so Merlin stood to make himself a pot of tea the old fashioned way. Which was not entirely accurate either, as Merlin concentrated pointedly on the kettle and heated the water inside with a silent look; sometimes he hated not having a stove or a fireplace in his rooms. The weather was growing colder by the day and oftentimes Merlin’s reluctance to rise in the morning had a lot to do with how cold the air had grown in his chambers (leaving the window open for Archimedes did have it drawbacks at times), and being too sleepy to think up the proper words to heat the place without running the risk of setting himself on fire. Which had happened, once or twice. The sun was coming in through the eastern facing windows and Merlin stood a moment to feel the warmth on his backside and soak it in down to his skin. He wondered just how hard it would be to find a spell that would conjure him a few plush rugs for his cold wood floors.

“Merlin.” Merlin turned around to face Arthur. The Prince had put down both book and stylus and was now staring somewhere off in the middle distance of the room. “What village did you say you were from?”

“Ealdor,” Merlin answered, sipping his cup of tea. “It’s just beyond the borders of Camelot, in Cendred’s kingdom.”

“That’s East Anglia. They don’t ban the practice of magic there, do they?”

Merlin blinked in surprise. “No, I don’t think there are any laws against it. As far as I know, it’s the issue that’s preventing Cendred and Uther from signing a peace treaty. Neither one wants to bend to the other’s policies on magic. Was there… something you wished to know?”

Arthur didn’t answer immediately before shaking his head. “No.”

The voice of caution that Merlin might have normally heard was curiously absent, probably thanks to the exhaustion that still lingered at the forefront of his consciousness, but he took another fortifying sip of the bitter brew anyway. “Arthur… I consider myself to be a man of learning, and while in any kingdom I have to respect and follow the laws that are in practice, it doesn’t mean that I can’t speak of things that… others might find to be unpleasant topics. I don’t like to promote ignorance. You know that you can ask me anything, sire.”

Merlin didn’t realize his hands were less steady than he’d presumed until he brought the cup to his mouth for another sip and felt the rim knock against his bottom lip. Arthur had swiveled around in his seat while Merlin was speaking, and they were now sharing a pair of unreadable expressions. Merlin smiled tentatively, hoping that it came off as open and trustworthy rather than reveal the apprehension that was creeping up on him. Arthur’s face gave nothing away, save that he seemed to be trying to see through Merlin straight to the wall behind him and had his right hand clenched hard over his knee.

After a long moment Arthur looked away. “I appreciate your offer. However… to speak of certain topics in Camelot is a punishable crime, and I would not wish to put you at risk.”

“We are alone here,” Merlin pointed out. “You shouldn’t fear to speak your mind. I’m not a citizen of Camelot. For what small liberties that grants me, I would be glad to take them.”

Arthur began to look slightly uncomfortable. “I hope you realize that what you are saying could be viewed as an act of treason.”

“I am not loyal to Camelot, and Uther is not my king,” Merlin said without hesitation, but held up a hand when Arthur’s hard gaze snapped back to him. “But neither do I have loyalty to Cendred. He’s never been a part of my life and I owe him no fealty for the protection he never gave my village. I’m a man of academia and learning – the written word is my only sovereign. If this truth displeases you… I’ll honor your wishes and speak no more of it.”

To Merlin’s surprise, Arthur’s eyes skittered away from him and then back again, something guarded yet hopeful struggling to break through in their depths. It was the first sign that Arthur still felt any of the internal dilemma he was feeling over magic since their conversation by the river, and it was something that Merlin hadn’t realized he’d been waiting for until the swell of unease that had fallen over him rapidly vanished.

“I’m your friend, if you will trust me, Arthur,” Merlin said softly.

“You would answer me honestly, if I were to ask you anything?” Arthur inquired carefully.

Merlin shut his eyes for a moment before opening them again. He was either signing his death warrant, or embarking toward a future that might be their only hope of preventing the atrocities he had witnessed in his time. He desperately wanted to hope it was the latter. “Yes. I will always do my best to give you an honest answer, no matter what you may ask of me.”

Arthur’s eyes widened and he nodded, something like relief and appreciation crossing his face. “I thank you for your council, and your trust in me. I will have to… think on what we have discussed.”

“And you, sire?” Merlin had to ask. “If I were to ask you something?”

Arthur blinked rapidly, looking caught off guard by the question. “I… I would not mind. That is, you have shown trust in me, and I would be wrong not to do the same.”

Merlin’s smile widened. “Then I do have one question, because the castle gossip is wholly unreliable, but how exactly did you escape from the men that kidnapped you? I can’t imagine it was easy. The squire that had been wounded said there were dozens of them.”

The very first look of fleeting worry crossed Arthur’s face as Merlin approached the table and he was surprised by how much that look boosted his own confidence to see if he could pry the truth out of Arthur. It would be a true test of their promise to each other, as well as a personal amusement for Merlin. He had to struggle not to smile too widely or seem overly eager as he sat in other remaining chair and placed his tea cup on the table.

“We have sworn to answer each other honestly, sire. You can tell me anything. Your words are safe within these walls.”

Arthur looked down and laid a hand carefully over the area on his forearm where he’d been cut, the length of the stylus held loose in his fingers. The edge of a white bandage could be seen peeking out from under the cuff of his sleeve and Merlin had heard from Gaius personally that the wound had needed more than twenty stitches to close. In the light coming into the tower Merlin could see that Arthur’s bruises had faded into spots of yellow and green, the cuts on his lip and cheeks little more than thin scabs and pale lines, but it was the absence of the desperate fear Merlin had witnessed in his eyes a week ago that brought him the greatest comfort. Arthur had proven himself unbroken by the ordeal of his kidnapping and subsequent rescue, and the warmth of admiration Merlin felt moving through his chest for the Prince’s enduring strength was not entirely unfamiliar.

“I did not escape on my own,” Arthur confessed after a long moment had passed. “There was a man, and when he found me I was tied up with a guard always at my back. He… he dispatched the bandits, and then led me to safety. He saved my life.”

“How extraordinary,” Merlin said with affected interest, cradling his cup between his hands as he leaned closer to hear the tale. His heart had begun beating faster just listening to Arthur confess the truth of his escape. “He defeated all of them? What did he do? Sneak past the guard? Who was he?”

“I don’t know,” Arthur admitted. “And sneaking was not necessary… he walked straight into the center of their camp. He… Merlin you must swear not to speak of this to anyone, ever!”

“I swear, sire,” Merlin promised, his right leg beginning to bounce under the table. “Tell me?”

“He killed them. All of them. He… he was a sorcerer. I thought he had come there to kill me, like my father has always told me they would, but he killed all of the men and freed me. He took me most of the way back to Camelot but we nearly ran into some of my father’s men in the forest and he left to prevent his own capture. I had sworn not to speak of this, but… I…”

“You’ve been thinking about it,” Merlin inferred, speaking softly. “To have lived through such an experience and to have no one to speak of it with, it must have been weighing heavily on your thoughts.”

Arthur nodded, his shoulders relaxing marginally. Merlin folded his hands atop the table between the cup and his torso. “Did he say why he did it? Was it coincidence and he happened along at the right time?”

“I don’t know. I don’t think so. He kept his face hidden and did not give me his name or tell me where he was from. He said he had come to rescue me, to return me to Camelot, nothing more.” Merlin noticed that Arthur’s gaze had drifted past him while he’d spoken, and as he turned to follow the direction of his stare he saw it was resting on Archimedes’ empty perch next to his bed. Merlin tried not to flinch as he felt a cold sweat break out across the back of his neck.

“Is something the matter?” he asked lightly.

“No,” Arthur said, but when he did not shift his eyes away immediately Merlin began to wonder with belated unease whether certain details were falling into place. He’d never considered that Archimedes might become the one thing to connect him with Arthur’s sorcerer rescuer. Though there was no certainty that revealing the entire truth would only result in the same worst outcome, the one he couldn’t help fearing even now, Merlin’s heart still began to beat faster.

“Have you ever met anyone else who has an owl?” Arthur asked after a pause.

Merlin swallowed heavily. “No, I haven’t,” he answered honestly. “They’re not very common creatures to be domesticated.”

“Even falconers do not usually use them,” Arthur agreed, and his attention had come to rest on Merlin again. There was a curious, determined set around his mouth. “Would Archimedes listen to anyone else but you?”

“I don’t know. He’s independent but also very loyal. We’ve known each other for years and I’ve slowly earned his trust over time. But you can see he’s not here now and I haven’t seen him these last few nights. He contents himself when he chooses to. You aren’t aiming to use him for a competition again are you?”

Arthur shook his head. “It’s nothing. Idle curiosity, as you’ve said.”

Merlin watched Arthur duck his head and refocus on his tablet, but his hands did not move to retrieve his book or begin writing again. Merlin’s tea had gone cold by his elbow and some reckless, childish part of him wondered what would happen if he heated the water again right now, in front of Arthur in broad daylight. Then truly all of their secrets would be laid bare between them, but the thought of the brief thrill it might bring was overshadowed largely by the apprehension that Merlin could never seem to shake. He knew he wasn’t ready for that sort of revelation, not when it meant he might have to leave Camelot before he’d had a chance to know for sure that he’d changed the outcome of the future for good. It was shameful of him to feel so cowardly, to continue to hide from Arthur when they’d already taken so many steps toward trusting each other, but even with the words there Merlin couldn’t force his mouth to move. The risk was simply too great.

Quite unexpectedly the sound of a brisk knock reverberated against the tower door. Merlin jumped up, startled but grateful for the distraction, and he opened the door to find a page on the opposite side. “Yes?” he asked.

“Sir, King Uther has requested the presence of Prince Arthur.”

Arthur was already standing next to the table when Merlin turned around, and they shared a glance that slowly morphed into a relieved, half-smile on the Prince’s face. It was an expression that Merlin had never thought to ever see directed at him, gratitude and something like appreciation. There was a secret between them now, one that only they knew, and Merlin had to clear his throat past the unnameable lump that had settled there.

“We shall continue your lessons tomorrow then, sire.”

Arthur nodded, giving Merlin one last, lingering look, before he walked out and closed the door behind him.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Final edits as of 10/7/11 - Once again thank you Cate for being the only reason this story continues to be remotely passable for public consumption <3

Even with the oath of honesty between them Arthur did not bring up the encounter with his sorcerer rescuer again, nor did he immediately jump on the topic of magic. While it was true that the Prince was mostly unaware of the extent of Merlin’s expertise, the more likely culprit that held his tongue was whatever lingering misgivings he had thanks to Uther’s quest to sow seeds of mistrust and fear. It was a reprieve that Merlin hated himself for being secretly grateful for, when there was still a part of him that couldn’t help wondering if this new direction had been the wisest decision to make. The idea of having no secrets between them someday had the air of a hopeless fantasy, an unattainable ideal that Greek philosophers likened to the shadows on a wall that could be seen at a distance but never known for what they truly were. Merlin knew that ultimately the greatest need for change lay within him, and though it took the better part of a week he slowly began relaxing enough in Arthur’s presence to bring up topics he might have otherwise stayed away from. It took a conscious effort to be less self-censorious during their conversations when Arthur did ask questions, but gradually he found the courage to speak with an openness that he’d never had the privilege to use before.

Arthur seemed especially interested in the history and origins of the Old Religion when the discussions did come about, and his questions were focused mainly on the people who practiced it, the cultures that embraced it, and of the conflicts that had arisen over the years which were caused or solved by those same practitioners. Merlin had educated himself as well as he’d been able to before coming back to Camelot, mainly for the purposes of research and figuring out in what direction to search in his quest for time travel, but they soon reached a point where his immediate knowledge of Albion’s magical history ran dry. They moved onto whatever books and scrolls they could find after that, some from Merlin’s personal collection and some on loan from Gaius, and it marked the first time they had settled into the quest for information together, trading notes and unearthing facts that neither had been aware of before. It was a curious change to no longer be the sole educator (and made him feel younger, somehow), but Merlin found that when they weren’t bickering over a translation or arguing over historical inaccuracies they made surprisingly fast progress together. The only topic that seemed to remain an unspoken taboo revolved around a period of time roughly fourteen years earlier, and though Arthur had never openly made bans on it, Merlin steered clear of the subject and chose to respect that there were some pieces of history still too recent to speak of.

Late autumn moved on and early winter began to settle over Camelot, shortening the days and making the nights colder by turn until one month before midwinter they had their first snow, a thin layer of powder and ice that settled overnight across the fields and blanketed all the roofs with the same blinding, pristine layer of white. Merlin watched from his high windows as tiny figures moved about the castle courtyard, skirting between the small drifts where snow had been pushed aside to clear a path from the main doors to the gates, and by the evening hours snowball fights and other silly games had repeatedly broken out with peals of laughter that could be heard all the way up at the top of the tower. The snow had disappeared almost entirely by the next day but it had served its purpose, affirming winter’s arrival and prompting life in the castle to change accordingly. The heavy tapestries were taken out of storage and hung in the halls, the rushes in the great hall were cleared and replaced with fresh straw, and great branches of oak and vines of holly began appearing across doorframes and archways, perfuming the air with the smell of sap and winter berries.

Out of some misguided concern for Merlin’s health, Arthur commissioned the castle’s mason to have a stove installed in the tower room after that first snowfall, which also came on the heels of him complaining for the third time that Merlin’s rooms were too cold to live in, let alone carry a conversation in without their teeth knocking together. Merlin hadn’t wanted to risk using a spell to heat the room while Arthur was present and in the end he was grateful for at least the appearance of conventional heating, even though Arthur spent a good week afterwards marveling at just how brilliant his idea had been and how daft Merlin was for not considering it in the first place. He also seemed to think that his hand in having the stove installed also gave him exclusive rights to it in Merlin’s absence and Merlin would often return to his rooms to find Arthur heating cider or roasting chestnuts in the grate while he studied, a particular invasion of privacy that Merlin supposed he deserved after years spent barging into Arthur’s chambers unannounced. They moved Merlin’s table closer to the stove and spent the time from sundown into late evening shelling the nuts and burning their fingers while discussing Arabic scholars, Greek philosophy, Roman politics, and composing incomprehensible insults in Frankish when Arthur’s patience for learning the language ran dry. Arthur had discovered one of the new knights had spent a few years in Gaul and he took to teaching Merlin whatever slurs and vulgar terms the man could remember from his limited vocabulary, a game that brought their lessons to an end on the heels of uncontrollable laughter and a kind of drunken happiness that lingered on with Merlin through the long winter nights.

Arthur was also uncommonly considerate towards Archimedes since his return and though he’d not once asked Merlin directly if he’d been involved in his rescue, Merlin still couldn’t find the courage to reveal anything that might implicate him. It felt too soon and Merlin didn’t know if that was a truth that they would ever find a way to discuss without there being heated words and swords involved. Arthur trusted Merlin as his teacher and saw him as a curious old man that preferred the company of his books – to discover that Merlin was a sorcerer that had lied and deceived to gain a place in Uther’s court sounded bad even to Merlin’s ears. As time pressed on Merlin began to wonder if he could simply finish Arthur’s education and slip away quietly, perhaps reinvent a new identity for himself and remain in Camelot to watch the kingdom’s progress from afar. No doubt his younger self would arrive in Camelot the same way he had all those years ago and then there would no longer be a necessity for Emrys in Arthur’s life. Just Merlin the manservant, and if Merlin was a little bit jealous of his younger self he tried not to think on it too long or dwell on the reasons why he might have cause to feel bitter. His current position in Arthur’s life was satisfactory, at times enjoyable enough to give him cause to smile for no reason at all, so to envy the position he’d once held and may hold again was ludicrous. Even if he sometimes missed the relationship he and Arthur had shared then, before the lies had started to cloud over everything else, just a little bit.

Yuletide came and went with twelve days of feasting and a blizzard that trapped most of the castle indoors for nearly a week and grounded life in Camelot to a halt. The days were filled with freezing temperatures and Merlin was forced to resort to using magic to melt the ice off the outside of his windows just to get them open, but there was a sense of gaiety and merrymaking thanks to Uther’s efforts to keep the castle’s attention on the festivities and not on the fierce snowstorms that battered almost daily against the castle walls. Arthur celebrated the mid-winter festival by giving Merlin a thick bearskin blanket for his bed and a new brass inkpot inlaid with geometric lines of onyx, and in return Merlin gave him a copy of Gerard’s _Tables of Toledo_ and a hunting knife that he had charmed to never need sharpening. Merlin also parted with a rare transcription of Hippocrates just to see the stunned expression on Gaius’ face when he opened the book cover, and that night by a roaring fire they enjoyed cups of warmed wine that Merlin charmed to never empty as they spoke of forgotten dreams and the broken promises that had led them to where they were today. And though Gaius initially repeated his usual warning against Merlin revealing too much of the future, he listened in respectful silence as Merlin struggled through the trappings of his own condemnation and recounted the events that had divided the kingdom and sent it to war, and how his mistakes had lost him a man he looked to as a father and a Prince he cared for too deeply to define by a single emotion. Even with the buzz of alcohol in his blood he was unable to meet Gaius’ eyes as the story fell from his lips, revealing how the man beside him had died believing in a false future and by flames that Merlin had all but set to the pyre by his own hand. He couldn’t ask to be forgiven, not for sentencing Gaius to death or for irrevocably ruining the future through his own incompetence, but there was a touch of absolution in the arm Gaius circled around his shoulder as he let Merlin cry against his chest, and Merlin wept for all of the lives he had condemned to death and the ones he’d been unable to save.

Winter did not depart as quickly as Merlin would have liked and by Imbolc he and Arthur were snapping at each other so badly that by unspoken agreement they pared down Arthur’s lessons to three times a week to lessen the risk of murder brought on by the forced confinement. Merlin found himself watching Archimedes come and go from the tower with a wistful longing for the outdoors again and with his sudden abundance of free time he began exploring the magic needed for physical transformations, a subject matter he’d read extensively on but had found little time to devote to experimentation. It distracted him to the point that even Arthur began commenting on the effect of winter and how it was driving Merlin to act more loony than usual, which Merlin might have taken more offense toward if he’d been paying less attention to picking off the bits of fur that seemed to find its way all over his clothing. By the time the last snowflake fell and the ice had begun thawing from Camelot’s soil, Merlin had successfully mastered the spells for turning himself into a dog, cat, pig, rat, and a squirrel, though he learned the hard way that changing into a rodent with Archimedes in the room was not the wisest of choices.

With the first hints of spring Arthur returned to his grueling schedule of training daily with the knights and Merlin became certain he was witnessing another kind of magical transformation. As the weeks passed Arthur seemed to grow uncontrollably before his eyes, and the growth spurt he’d been enduring in short stages since winter took on a life of its own in the warmer air. Arthur’s voice had been cracking embarrassingly for months and with the season change it finally settled into a lower timbre that Merlin recognized with an extreme feeling of equal fondness and irritation. Somewhere along the way Arthur had discovered just how wonderful sarcasm sounded with his new intonation and he took to using it to excess when speaking to Merlin and, according to rumor, in the presence of his father’s councilors. Arthur also seemed to outgrow his own clothing with a speed that defied rationality and had the tailors splitting hairs when nothing seemed to last in his wardrobe for longer than a month, though the number of cast-offs that came to Camelot’s serving boys had the waiting staff dressed finer than they’d ever been. And in a completely unexpected move Arthur dismissed his longtime manservant and lined the old man’s pockets with a generous retirement sum for his loyal years spent in the royal family’s service. Arthur seemed in no hurry to seek a replacement for the man afterwards and Merlin realized with some disgruntlement that yes, Arthur was indeed capable of dressing himself. The prat.

The days gradually grew warmer, life bloomed anew and filled the air with weed and pollen, the morning fog rolled in thick overnight and sometimes refused to burn off until high noon, and rain came frequently and soaked the crop fields and promised another good harvest in the autumn. Merlin began taking walks with Arthur through the outlaying forests and farm pastures to further his lessons in horticulture and biology, but always under guard thanks to Uther’s paranoia even though the kidnapping had taken place more than six months earlier. In between teaching Arthur linear equations using al-Khwärizmï's treatise on al-jabr (which Arthur never relented mispronouncing as _algebra_ ), recounting the formation of the great Persian Empire and its government systems, and identifying basic medicinal plant life, Merlin plowed forward with the task of keeping up with Arthur’s newfound interest in all topics involving magic and the people who practiced it. He answered his questions about Greece and Egypt and Babylon, helped him research about their soothsayers and deities and temples, and explained to him how the Celts and their Old Religion had once flourished and prospered all across Albion and incorporated magic into all parts of their lives, with no roots in good or evil. In time Merlin began to forget why he’d ever hesitated to reveal these histories to Arthur, who proved to be a diligent student that never once told Merlin to stop, never listened with fear or prejudice but always with wide-eyed curiosity and a sharp mind that challenged Merlin’s intelligence more than he could have ever predicted. It made Merlin look forward to each new day with more enthusiasm and anticipation than he’d felt in years. And it made him careless.

*~*~*

It had been raining off and on for days and Merlin had already spent far too much time in the loft of his room coaxing the roof slates to stretch and shift to plug the gaps that had formed and widened during the past winter. His knees hurt from where he’d bumped them against the ladder one too many times, his lower back ached from being on his feet for hours, and the steady throbbing behind his eyes had turned into a full-blown headache. It was the worst kind of dreary spring weather and even inside the tower the air felt wet and miserable. It was hard not to feel depressed with the endless days of gray storm clouds. Merlin only took comfort in the fact that if everyone in Camelot were to drown his tower ensured that he would be one of the last ones to go. That is, if his own roof ever stopped dripping, and he’d already irritated all of his jugs and pots by using them to catch the water whenever a new leak sprang up. Going on two days now an odd smell had settled in his room, something damp and slightly unpleasant, and Merlin could not pinpoint or make it go away no matter how many cleaning and drying spells he tried.

It was early evening by the time he finished closing the latest leak to find a way through his ceiling and his headache had only worsened in the last hour thanks to a combination of using magic and being forced to squint in the dim light of the loft. The muffled sound of the rain pounding on the roof above instead of hitting his floor was a relief but it also made the pounding in the front of his skull even more noticeable. It was fortunate that Arthur wasn’t even in Camelot because Merlin had spent the better part of his day being lazy and moping; he hadn’t even bothered casting on his glamour or putting on his boots. All he wanted to do now was curl up under his bed covers and sleep until his headache went away and the rain stopped falling.

Two months ago the Prince had begun accompanying the border patrols under Uther’s suggestion that he gain more worldly experience in the field, and Merlin still got a funny feeling in his gut at the memory of Arthur proudly displaying every bit of his newly minted armor before his first time out. Merlin had almost broken down and begged to be allowed to go with the party but in the end had sent Archimedes along to accompany them with instructions to stay of sight. It was the only bit of insurance he had that Arthur would be protected without him there to step in directly, and waiting anxiously for the Prince’s return were always the worst days of Merlin’s week. The habit of sending Archimedes along had continued on for the second and third trip Arthur had taken, and now being day three into Arthur’s fourth extended border patrol Merlin was feeling out of sorts without the companionship of either bird or boy. Gaius had accepted Merlin’s company initially when the tours began, but these days he’d gotten wise to the source of Merlin’s desperation for companionship and tended to kick Merlin out of his rooms within the first few minutes lest Merlin start melting things again. It had only happened the once and Merlin had been exceptionally miserable at the time, but Gaius did not forgive the loss of his favorite glass beakers easily, regardless of the fact Merlin had put them back together again afterwards.

With the way the rain was falling there was little chance of seeing the knights return that evening, and in his tumble down to pathetic levels of boredom Merlin had taken to rearranging his furniture for wont of anything better to do over the last few days. He’d even broken one of his own rules and had used magic to bring up food from the kitchens, not wanting to deal with servants or making polite conversation or pretending to care about the castle gossip. When he’d realized that he was setting aside bits of meat for Archimedes while he ate he’d sent the whole plate skidding across the table in disgust until it crashed loudly against the floor. He had tried to read and given up, tried to record some of his original spells from memory but could not concentrate enough to remember all the words, and when even the idea of going to the Hall of Records to speak to Geoffrey had sounded more appealing than staying in his room, Merlin had fled into the loft to deal with the newest leaks pooling on his ceiling.

Merlin was coming down the ladder when he heard the sound of footsteps ascending the stairs outside his door, but he had left it locked all day and did not care to hurry his descent to bother finding out who had come to visit. And that’s when the door swung open to reveal Arthur standing on the other side, still in his riding clothes but his armor absent, looking wet and tired and slightly out of breath from his climb up the stairs. Merlin’s foot slipped off the last rung and he hit the floor with a stumble and that forced him to make a wild grab for the ladder, jaw open and a wave of cold dread spreading through his body.

There was a moment where they stared at each other in surprise, Merlin with one hand still braced on the ladder and Arthur with one hand on the door handle. Then Arthur’s eyes darted to take in the state of the room, the books on the floor and the furniture that had been shoved around in Merlin’s indecision, papers scattered everywhere and the discarded dinner plate he’d been too lazy to clean up, and the sudden flash of anger across his features was quick and severe. He was across the room in four strides and had Merlin pinned against the ladder at his back, an arm braced across his throat and the very same dagger Merlin had given him for Yuletide in his fist and pointed dangerously close to Merlin’s exposed neck.

“Who are you?” Arthur hissed.

Merlin swallowed thickly, his heart hammering wildly with panic. “This isn’t what it looks like.”

Arthur shoved him back once, hard, and the pressure on his throat increased. “It _looks like_ you’re a thief and I’ve caught you in the act. Where is the man who lives here?”

“He’s not here,” Merlin rasped uncomfortably. “Please. Stop. Just let me explain.”

Arthur pushed in closer and Merlin realized he had not truly become of aware of just how much Arthur had grown or how strong he’d become over the past few months. The Prince’s eyes were level with his chin and Merlin could see the pale blue of his irises and where the skin was blemished from oil and dirt on his nose and cheeks. Arthur’s damp hair smelled like rain and sweat and leather and horses, and Merlin was equally unnerved and buoyed by the warmth he felt upon seeing him again. He would have choked on the feelings had he not already been losing air thanks to Arthur’s arm.

“You have little room to beg for anything,” Arthur growled. “You are to be arrested and escorted to the dungeons, where you will confess your attempted robbery and accept the punishment accordingly.”

Merlin wheezed. “No, gods… Arthur stop! I’m Merlin!”

Arthur flinched in surprise but he did not take his arm away from Merlin’s throat or lower the dagger. “What?”

“I’m… Merlin,” he said, trying to draw breath. “And you’re… choking me… Arthur…”

Arthur abruptly dropped his arm, but instead Merlin felt the cold press of the dagger point come to rest against his skin and he froze. Arthur’s voice was dangerously low when he spoke. “Explain yourself.”

“I’d rather do it without a knife at my throat,” Merlin prevaricated, attempting to shift his head away so he could swallow without being cut.

Arthur’s hand fisted itself in Merlin’s shirt and yanked him forward again. “Do not play games with me. Who are you?”

“Merlin,” he answered again, bracing himself with a wince. “Arthur I’m… it’s me.”

Arthur’s face remained deadly furious, but there was something shifting in his eyes as he searched Merlin’s face for the lie, confusion and disbelief all wrapped up with the anger that still held his fist against Merlin’s throat. And that’s when they heard the scratching on the casement, both of their heads whipping toward the window Merlin had left ajar out of habit. Archimedes’ waterlogged head appeared after a moment and the disgruntled owl pushed the glass the rest of the way open, flapping unsteadily on the ledge to shake the water off his feathers. He was letting in even more of the rain but Merlin knew he had more painfully pressing things to worry about than the large puddle forming on the floor.

Arthur had eased off on the dagger slightly, though Merlin could see out of the corner of his eye that it was still raised and poised near the flesh of his throat. Archimedes shook himself vigorously again and then seemed to spot the pair, his head tilting to the side in what could be construed as confusion. He hooted once, a question, and Merlin swallowed uneasily.

“Hello Archimedes,” he greeted cautiously. “It’s alright. Arthur and I were just… sorting some things out.”

“You know this bird?” Arthur demanded. “How could you? I’ve never-”

“It’s me, Arthur. I swear it.”

“You’re lying!”

“Stop shouting for one moment and listen to me!”

Arthur jostled the hand fisted in Merlin’s shirt, causing Merlin’s head to thump painfully against the ladder at his back. He pressed his eyes shut briefly at the sting, wondering whether it would be wise to simply use magic or find a way to get through to the boy. Arthur was so stubborn and so quick to anger, but Merlin wanted to hope that somehow, this time, the outcome would be different. He exhaled and forced his shoulders to relax, and when he opened his eyes he let them lock with Arthur’s. “I would never lie if you asked. I promised you that. Please. I’m telling you the truth.”

Immediately Arthur backed off half a step, the dagger slipping away as his face gave way to the confusion in his eyes. “Merlin?”

Merlin nodded, taking in an unrestricted lungful of air even as his nerves coiled and knotted themselves in his gut. “Yes.”

Arthur’s hands came down to clench at his sides, the dagger still clutched in his palm. His anger seemed to return to usurp his confusion, albeit redirected. “What happened? Is this a spell? Did someone do this to you?”

“It’s not… it’s hard to explain. I… oh Archimedes get in already. You’re letting water everywhere!” Merlin chastised, and he hurried past Arthur to close the window as Archimedes flew across the room to land on his perch by the stove.

Merlin lingered with his hands on the glass for a moment, the cool touch helping to ground some of the trembling in his fingers, and he could feel the water under his bare feet soaking into the hem of his breeches. As he turned, he realized that Arthur had left the tower door open in his rush to pin him down and Merlin hastened across the room to close that as well. When he came around to face Arthur the young man was watching him with the same mixture of frustration and confusion, though something in his eyes seemed to be begging Merlin to give him an explanation he could understand. Merlin leaned against the door at his back, gathering what strength he could from the solid weight of it.

“It’s a bit of a long story… but before you go running off thinking there’s foul magic afoot, no one did this to me. This is me. I’m Merlin.”

“But you’re not old!” Arthur protested.

“I’m not really that old, not yet at least. It was a disguise. I… I needed a way to be here safely. I didn’t want to risk anyone recognizing me.”

“What?” Arthur asked quietly, low and disbelieving. He began advancing on Merlin again, his expression morphing rapidly into anger. “You deceived us to get into Camelot? My father! Me? What are you!”

“Your friend!” Merlin insisted, lifting his hands as Arthur stepped up until they were toe to toe again. “I swear it, Arthur. I only came here to protect you, to keep you safe. Please, you must believe me. I didn’t want to lie but I had no choice.”

Arthur hadn’t lifted his dagger again but his eyes were hard and he looked ready to drag the truth out of Merlin; even if it involved using his fists. “No choice? Why should I believe you, when you’re nothing but a liar! How can I trust your word?”

Merlin swallowed bracingly. Being caught in Arthur’s glare was like being a fly trapped in the clutches of a spider, helpless and frantic to take flight and escape certain death. Arthur had him trapped against the door and though no parts of them were touching the roiling emotion coming off the Prince was enough keep Merlin effectively immobilized. He had nowhere to go except admit the truth or risk destroying everything they’d built together. “Arthur, I’m not… we promised to always speak the truth to each other. I’m being honest with you. I meant when I said… I said one day I would tell you my secrets.”

Arthur’s shoulders seemed to tense up but then his eyes widened, surprise and something else flickering through them. He stepped back abruptly. “That voice…” he whispered, his eyes darting across Merlin’s face, searching. “I remember… I know you.”

Merlin lowered his hands slowly and nodded, meeting Arthur’s disbelieving gaze. He saw the exact moment the pieces fell together in Arthur’s head.

“It was _you_!?” Arthur shouted. His head twisted around to look at where Archimedes was shuffling guiltily along his branch. “All this time… I told myself it was impossible, that I my memories of that night… You played me for a fool!”

“Arthur, I-” Merlin was cut off by the fist that swung in unexpectedly and his head snapped back as Arthur’s balled up hand connected with his jaw. They met with a painful crack, pain shooting through both sides of his head, and Merlin realized blearily that his skull had hit the door from the force of the punch.

Merlin groaned and curled away in case any more fists decided to fly. He brought a hand up to his stinging lip where it had met the sharp edge of his teeth and was now leaving a coppery trickle of blood in his mouth. His jaw hurt and his head throbbed and there was bound to be bruising, and once the spots began to clear from his eyes he saw that Arthur didn’t look sorry in the least that he’d just punched Merlin square in the face.

“That was hardly called for!” Merlin complained bitterly, cradling his tender cheek.

If possible, Arthur’s eyes only blazed with more anger. “Do you have any idea… for weeks I told myself I was mistaken, that I was jumping to false conclusions, seeing coincidences where there were none. How many sane men would willingly keep company with an owl? And imagine my surprise when I discovered that the horse he’d given me was _from our own stables_! I thought, ‘surely he couldn’t be,’ but the way you spoke and how you _babbled_ on and on just like he did. I told myself there had to be another explanation. Your ages were completely different and… and you lied to me!”

“To protect us both!” Merlin protested, wincing against the pain it took to speak. “When I heard you’d been taken I rode out as fast as I could. I could hardly rescue you if I’d had nothing more than a book to swing at them. I did what I had to do.”

Arthur backed off a few steps and even with the anger still vibrating off of him Merlin had no trouble seeing how tense Arthur had become. “All I understand is that you’re a sorcerer.”

Something in Merlin went cold and despairing. It was the reaction he’d been trying so hard to prevent from happening when this moment came. There was no use denying the truth, but Merlin couldn’t help hesitating anyway, his tongue thick and heavy in his mouth. “Yes,” he choked out, shoulders sagging.

“And all this?” Arthur said, speaking past the clench of his teeth. He swept his arm around to indicate the room and them. “Was all that a lie too? A way to get close to the Prince? All those stories, those histories, were they to fill my head and manipulate me?”

“No!” Merlin cried, his heart sinking further as he stepped away from the door. “None of that was a lie. We made a promise together, and I have honored it every day. I have not once lied to you.”

“But you didn’t tell me about _this_!” Arthur shouted, his voice cracking in a way it hadn’t for months now. For the first time Merlin saw the hurt that was hiding in the Prince’s eyes. It was the same look of betrayal that he’d had to face down once before and it lanced through Merlin’s gut with a shock of guilt and dread. The thought of being responsible for hurting Arthur chilled him, but it was the thought of losing him again after all this time that scared him even more.

“I… I would have. I wanted to. I thought… hoped someday I could tell you the truth. I didn’t intend to hide it from you forever,” Merlin tried to explain, throat tight with remorse.

“But you did,” Arthur spat, advancing on Merlin again as if sensing a weakness to exploit. “You said you would always be truthful with me, but you were lying _every day_. You deceived everyone; me, my father, this whole castle. Your word means nothing!”

And that hurt, to have his promises thrown back in his face when Merlin had been trying so hard to embrace honesty. Arthur would never know how difficult it had been, how many years Merlin had spent afraid to trust, fearing the truth like it was poison. The truth had never done anything but destroy his life one tragedy at a time, and yet it had been Arthur who had made him change his mind in the end, who had made him see that the truth could also be good. And now Arthur was the same one calling those vows worthless, and it _hurt_.

“How was I supposed to tell you when I knew you were going to react exactly like this!” Merlin snapped back, and there was a perverse satisfaction in watching the way Arthur faltered as his own pain and anger rose to the surface.

Though Arthur seemed briefly taken aback by the outburst he collected himself quickly. “You can’t blame me! You’re the one who’s been lying all this time!”

“Did it never once occur to you, that this–” Merlin swept his hand out, mirroring Arthur’s earlier gesture. “That everything, the histories, the lessons, everything I ever told you about magic was because I wanted to prevent exactly this kind of thing? I lied, and _I am sorry for it_ , but I had to know you wouldn’t try to have me arrested first!”

“So this is _my_ fault?” Arthur demanded incredulously. “You’re implying I wasn’t trustworthy enough?”

“No, I… that’s not what I meant,” Merlin faltered, his frustration peaking as he watched the hurt in Arthur’s eyes struggle not to resurface. He pinched the bridge of his nose and winced at the lingering pain in his jaw. “There are so many things… so much I wanted to show you. The wonders I have seen, the beauty of magic, I wanted to share it all with you. But you are Uther’s son, I had to be sure…”

“So now I am to blame for my father’s actions,” Arthur snarled, low and bitter. “You would judge me based on the actions of another man, and not on my own. I spared your life!”

“You also tried to kill me the first time we properly met!” Merlin retorted. “Pardon me for wanting to be a little more cautious the next go around!”

Arthur’s jaw clamped shut with a look of contrition. “I wouldn’t have tried to kill you,” he protested.

Merlin’s headache seemed to return with a sudden vengeance, or perhaps it had not left at all and only his evaporating anger and his injury were giving it leeway to be more noticeable. “I’m fairly certain I knew that. I do trust you, I was just afraid,” Merlin admitted, and his knee found one of the stools and he sat down on it hard, rubbing his tender chin carefully. “I was more worried you’d be angry, or that you’d hate me, or that you’d send me away from Camelot. I couldn’t risk it. I’m sorry.”

Arthur shuffled quietly toward the other end of the room and over his hand Merlin saw him crossing and uncrossing his arms and shooting glances at Merlin and Archimedes both. He looked upset but at least somewhat less hostile and likely to throw another punch, and there was more sullen anger than true fury lining his face. A log crumbled inside the grate of the stove and it sounded unnaturally loud in the silent room, save for the rain still beating against the windows. Merlin’s feet were growing colder and his headache was showing no signs of abating.

“You came back early,” Merlin noted. Arthur shot him a brief, piercing glare, one that Merlin refused to rise to. “It’s been raining so much, no one thought you’d be back until tomorrow.”

“The men agreed to push on to Camelot,” Arthur explained with gruff reluctance. “We would have had to risk crossing the floodwaters if we’d waited any longer.”

“It must have been bad already,” Merlin said and frowned. “That was a very risky thing to do.”

Arthur huffed dismissively. “We managed. Perhaps it was fortunate, or I would not have come back to find you… redecorating,” he said with a pointed glance around the room.

Merlin stifled another sigh and rose from his seat. Arthur did not move, but Merlin saw the way his shoulders stiffened at the motion; he was still wary, still uncertain, and maybe still a little fearful of the exposed sorcerer in his midst. It hurt more than Merlin wanted to admit to see that careful stance braced for danger, as if Merlin would ever harm him in any way. Merlin turned to walk the other way around the far side of table to the opposite end of the room. His lip was still smarting and throbbing so he stopped to grab a cloth and wet it with the water from his wash basin, using the corner to dab away the blood from his mouth. The cut stung but wasn’t anything a little magic wouldn’t heal right up, though Merlin was reluctant to cast any spells, however subtly, with Arthur still in the room and watching his every move. Merlin moved next to sit down at the edge of his bed and used a corner of the sheet to dry his feet before pulling on his boots, feeling the rough scrape of the leather over the numbed flesh. When he looked back up, Arthur was scrutinizing him with open suspicion.

“What? Am I not allowed to get tired of the room always looking the same?” Merlin asked defensively.

“Is that what it was?” Arthur remarked, sounding unconvinced. He bent down to pick up a book by his foot and placed it atop the table. “I’m having difficulty believing anything you say to me now, sorcerer.”

Merlin didn’t bother to hide his snort of annoyance. “If it will make you feel any less suspicious of my motivations, sire, you’re welcome to watch me move furniture until you’re satisfied. Or will you simply call the guard now and be done with it?”

Arthur shot him a scathing look. “Your impudence seems less out of place now. I should… damn it, I need time to think.”

Merlin watched, with some surprise, as Arthur sat down on the room’s other empty stool, his back to the warm fire and the tips of his hair curling from the heat after being dampened by the rain. He still had the dagger held loosely between his splayed knees, fingers turning it slowly and reflecting the firelight along the narrow blade. Merlin couldn’t help rubbing his neck uncomfortably, feeling the ghost of where the sharp tip had almost met his flesh. He didn’t want to think that Arthur might have actually done him harm, but it wouldn’t be the first time that Arthur had swung a weapon near his head, nor would it have been the first time that the blade connected. It was a little depressing to think that Merlin might need to be more on his guard to defend against Arthur’s compulsive use of weapons, given how often he’d found himself on the wrong end of a blade.

“What are you thinking?” Arthur asked.

Merlin realized he’d been rubbing absently at his left shoulder and probably had an unpleasant look on his face to accompany it. He dropped his hand and shrugged. “Only that you’re fond of bringing sharp weapons near my head.”

Arthur scowled, but he did sheathe his dagger into the leg of his boot after a moment. “Perhaps the guards would be better suited to deal with you after all.”

Merlin would liked to have pointed out that no cell could detain him if he chose not to be there, but antagonizing Arthur more was not what he had in mind. “I had hoped that we might talk,” he said.

Arthur snorted. “I’m in no mood to listen to your jabbering, Merlin. I still haven’t decided what to do with you.”

“Do with me?” Merlin repeated, and then frowned. “I’m not some servant you can just bandy about as you please. If you’re seriously considering having me locked up I’ll be gone from Camelot faster than you can blink. It’s not what I’d prefer, leaving you unprotected, but better than being stuck in some rotting cell awaiting the chopping block.”

Arthur, if possible, looked somewhat paler than he had a moment earlier. His lips pressed together tightly, giving his face a pinched look that Merlin didn’t find familiar or very comforting. “You aren’t giving me much of a choice,” he bit out.

Merlin threw his hands up. “How about this one – I remain your dutiful tutor, you get an education and I get to keep my livelihood. Seems perfectly reasonable to me.”

“How can you-“ Arthur jumped out of his seat and paced angrily across the room. “How can you be so asinine? You’re a sorcerer, in _my father’s castle_ , and you speak of this as if… as if it were a simple matter to… things cannot go back to the way things were!”

“Why not?” Merlin demanded, standing as well. “Have I proven myself hostile? Do I wish yourself or Uther harm in any way? No, and I think you know that or you’d have gutted me like a fish without a second thought. You know I’m loyal to you, and Camelot. These past months should have made that more than clear.”

“Without proper cause!” Arthur snapped in frustration. “Someone with your… _abilities_ would never willingly come here. My father’s campaigns have more than made certain that a sorcerer does not enter these walls unless they are here to murder him or have been sentenced to be executed. What you are attempting to convince me of is impossible.”

“Not impossible. Just improbable,” Merlin corrected quietly, and his words caused Arthur to swing around to stare at him. “There is more to my story, yes. More than I’ve ever shared with anyone and more than I’m comfortable telling. Arthur, I have sworn to protect you with my life, no matter the cost. This isn’t a declaration I make idly. I’ve come from farther than you can imagine… it’s my only wish, my only reason to live. I exist to protect you. That is all I ask you to accept.”

Arthur’s mouth had fallen open slightly and Merlin watched him swallow before he looked away as their eyes met, a self-conscious hunch to his shoulders and the way his gaze darted around the space near Merlin’s feet. Arthur’s fingers brushed over a closed book cover on the table before he drew back his hand and crossed his arms, and when he did finally look once more at Merlin his eyes were clearly pained and conflicted. “You ask too much of me.”

Merlin wished he could deny how much the sudden pang in his heart hurt upon hearing those words. It was his turn to look away from the naked frustration pouring off Arthur, and the bitter taste of rejection welling in the back of his throat burned hotly. Everywhere his eyes fell he saw the disarray of his room and he couldn’t help thinking, with some detachment, that it was fortunate his magic made the job of packing so much easier. He hadn’t even made it an entire year this time around and it was hardly a comfort that at least he wasn’t being chased from Camelot upon the point of a sword being swung at his head. The realization that he’d failed once again to reach through to Arthur hurt no less.

“I suppose you’ll have earned the right to say that you ran off yet another tutor,” Merlin observed, chuckling with false humor. “You’re old enough now that I suppose I shall be the last one Uther ever sends to you.”

“What are you talking about?”

“My resignation. If you can’t trust me to remain at your side, then I will have to relocate myself elsewhere. Gaius may have need of an assistant or perhaps I’ll find work in the city. I haven’t had cause to consider it before, though I suppose I will have to now.”

“What? No.” Merlin looked up as Arthur came around the table between them, his expression a mix of surprise and irritation. He stopped a few steps away, hands fisted at his sides. “You will do no such thing.”

“But,” Merlin protested. He was confused, and Arthur’s glower didn’t leave much room for interpretation. His heart sank further. “What other choice is there? Would you rather I left Camelot entirely?”

“I’d rather you stopped rambling like a fool. I’ve not given you permission to leave.”

“But just a moment ago-”

“A moment ago you swore to me that you wouldn’t leave my side,” Arthur challenged.

“I wouldn’t go very far,” Merlin admitted. “Out of sight yes, but your life is too precious to be left in the hands of those who cannot protect you like I can.”

Arthur’s fist came down on the tabletop next to them with a loud thump. “You thick man, stop yammering and say something for once that makes sense! I don’t understand how you can… You’re a sorcerer who can kill an entire encampment of armed mercenaries in minutes, but you’ve yet to explain why my life is so important. I don’t understand you Merlin, _why choose me_?”

“There was no choice. It’s my destiny,” Merlin said simply.

Arthur snorted. “You would blindly follow some-”

“ _Not_ blindly,” Merlin interrupted with enough vehemence to surprise them both.

He and Arthur stared at one another for a long moment in silence. Merlin could almost swear that his skin was vibrating with how heavy his pulse felt, and though he’d spent a long time learning to show restraint with his emotions he couldn’t help the indignation that was rolling over him. The dragon might have set him on his path to manipulate him to fit its own ends and Gaius may have remained blindly convinced until his dying breath that Merlin was meant to protect Arthur from all evils, but Merlin alone had seen the true potential in Arthur for greatness. Arthur was not merely another Prince in line to sit on a warlord’s throne of conquest, destined to fade into the obscurity of history. He had the makings of a great leader, the rare kind that cared for his people and their welfare, and with magic at his side Merlin knew that Arthur would only use those powers for the betterment of all of Camelot’s citizens. Uther had sowed the first seeds of peacemaking in Albion but it would be Arthur that would unite the feuding kingdoms together. Of this, Merlin was utterly sure.

It was Arthur who looked away first and Merlin’s annoyance deflated as quickly as it had come. Of course Arthur didn’t understand something like destiny, how it was more than just a word or a justification. Merlin had accepted a long time ago that it meant potential, that pinnacle of greatness that every individual has inside of them, and he’d witnessed firsthand how quickly that could be lost when he and Arthur were separated by a gulf of betrayal and lies. Neither of them had been able to achieve anything on their own but bloodshed and murder and Albion had been left to suffer for their mistakes. The sense of wrongness, of something missing from the world had only grown stronger in Merlin with every year that had passed, as if the unrealized potential of their destiny were a physical thing that could be lost. Merlin knew that he and Arthur were stronger when they were united, and it was a future he did not want to lose again.

“It’s difficult… I don’t know how to say what I see when I look at you,” Merlin began hesitantly, wondering if he could properly put into words where the root of his conviction stemmed from. There was so much being left unsaid – their past together and the events that had shaped the basis for his confidence in Arthur’s capacity as Camelot’s future king, and behind it all existed the core of something greater, a deep abiding belief and devotion that Merlin knew he could never turn away from, not when the light in Arthur’s soul had the power to call him across both space and time.

“Sometimes you’re just a spoilt Prince who thinks too highly of his sword skills and not enough about his arithmetic and history. You can be a bully when you don’t get what you want and are probably too smart by half compared to your peers, which means you manipulate them without fear of repercussion. You’re headstrong and stubborn and impulsive and brave, but you care about respect more than blind obedience. I’ve never known anyone that works harder to earn their place, even when you’re among your most loyal subjects. You care for the plights of your citizens and never forget that there are people who live outside your city’s walls. When a man’s life is at stake, no matter his station, you value his life as if it were worth ten of your own. You see the good in people first and your code of honor compels you to protect the innocent and those that cannot help themselves. But more than anything, as I have witnessed personally, you have within you the capacity for tolerance and the willingness to compromise. One day you will be an honorable leader, and there is no one else I would be prouder to call my King, sire.”

Arthur said nothing immediately and Merlin tried not to fidget or give away just how much his heart was pounding. It was a long moment until Merlin noticed that Arthur’s cheeks had grown flushed, his eyes bright and clear in the reflected candlelight, and the Prince cleared his throat twice before speaking. “Superfluous flattery doesn’t suit you, Merlin.”

“No, it never did. Fortunate then I was telling the truth.” There was a moment of silence as Arthur’s color deepened to a true blush and a smile cautiously broke free on Merlin’s face.

Arthur turned away to face one of Merlin’s recently moved bookcases. “I see now it would be a menace to release you upon common society. People will realize you’re mad the moment you open your mouth, and it would be a poor reflection on my father’s judge of character.”

“Am I being sentenced to remain in my tower?” Merlin asked, brightening.

“Smugness does not suit you either,” Arthur scolded, though the reprimand was greatly diminished as Merlin could see that the backs of the Prince’s ears were still red.

Merlin was sorely tempted to tease further but he had a feeling that Arthur was fast approaching his limit for capriciousness. It would be foolish to risk angering him when they’d only stopped yelling at each other moments ago, though Merlin couldn’t deny that his happiness was rapidly bubbling to a point that might cause him to do something foolish. Like unthinkingly use his magic, or god’s forbid, hug Arthur.

“What shall we do now then?” Merlin asked, rubbing his arms through the thin layers of his shirt and jacket. The room was chillier than he normally liked thanks to the cold rain still beating against the tower windows, and Archimedes had left puddles on the floor below the window sill and his perch that Merlin now eyed despairingly. He wasn’t relishing the thought of returning to the loft to check for newly sprung leaks either.

“You could sort out this pig sty,” Arthur said, picking a book off the table and wedging it alongside several others on the bookcase.

“I suppose my efforts at reorganization have come to an end,” Merlin conceded. He opened his mouth, but stopped before a sound could escape and pressed his lips together. “Does that rule about no spells in your presence still apply, sire?”

Arthur turned away from the shelf and blinked warily. “Are you saying, this whole time…?”

Merlin shrugged noncommittally. “I’ve gotten far too accustomed to magic to stop using it completely. But it seemed the polite thing to ask. You may react upon instinct and gut me.”

Surprisingly, rather than lash out at Merlin’s impertinence, Arthur looked slightly abashed by the observation. “It isn’t the sort of thing one sees every day,” he said defensively. After a moment he looked off toward the wall over Merlin’s shoulder, something deliberately nonchalant in his tone. “What sort of spell is it?”

“Just something to clean this mess up. You might enjoy it.”

Arthur’s look was doubtful, and he assessed Merlin silently for a long moment before nodding once, slowly. Merlin exhaled, giving quiet thanks for that small amount of trust Arthur was showing in him. He looked around the room and whispered, “ _Hámsidhe níedfríend_.”

The spell was one Merlin had used more times than he could remember while living on his own after being exiled from Camelot. He felt the magic leave him, the warmth rushing through his veins and warming the muscles behind his eyes. The books stood upright on their spines and began marching obediently back to the bookshelves; the dinner plate picked itself off the floor and chucked the cold leftovers into the stove; the blanket and sheet on the bed behind him rustled and flattened out straight while his pillows flipped over and fluffed themselves; the scattered quills banded together and returned to their holding cup; several old rags flung themselves over the rainwater puddles and mopped up the messes before hanging in front of the stove to dry; every bit of parchment spread out on the table slid into neat stacks and rolled up and out of the way. It was a beautiful flurry of sudden activity and Arthur stood in the middle of it, mouth hanging open and eyes wide in surprise.

When the last book had succeeded in flinging itself up onto one of the higher shelves (having missed twice already), Merlin nodded at the job well done. “That was faster than usual,” he said with a small grin. “I think they were showing off for you.”

“What,” Arthur asked when he eventually found his voice, “was that?”

“A clean-up spell,” Merlin explained, walking back to the table. “When I’m feeling lazy it comes in handy. It’s just a shame I didn’t come up with it until after- that is, never mind. You can see it’s quite harmless. I simply told everything to go back where they belong.”

“Do they always… do that?” Arthur asked, his attention fixated on the wet rags that were flipping over in front of the open grate on the stove.

“Oh, well, actually…” Merlin began, warming up to the topic and encouraged by the fact that Arthur was stepping closer to the towels in fascination rather than backing away from them. “That’s an extension of their learned behavior, though a better way to think of it might be a compulsion to return to their natural state. I started off with the simple things, like my boots and the teapot because you’d be surprised how often those go missing, but eventually I gave it to everything. Enough free will to know what to do if there’s an obstacle in the way or how to follow an order. Or avoid being untimely destroyed.”

“These things are _alive_?” Arthur asked incredulously. He reached out to touch one of the wet rags and got a slap from one corner on his wrist in return.

“Not exactly. More like… the illusion of life. All they know are their intended purpose. They can’t think or feel or die. Harmless, really, unless you… I really wouldn’t do that, sire,” Merlin warned as Arthur made another grab for the towel, a determined frown on his face.

“Why? You said that- ow!” Arthur yelped as the warm towel wriggled out of his grasp and slapped him soundly on the arm. It lifted itself into the air and came to land on one of the empty branches of Archimedes’ perch, and Arthur frowned again when the owl moved to shuffle in front of it protectively. He crossed his arms. “I thought you liked me, Archimedes. After all, you’ve been following me for days.”

Merlin coughed, half in surprise and half to stifle the sudden urge to laugh. “Archimedes was just doing what I asked him to,” he clarified.

Arthur whipped around. “My god, Merlin. You’re worse than an old nursemaid!” he accused. “And I know that’s not the first time you’ve sent him after me, either. Did you really think I wouldn’t notice the same owl following our party day after day?”

“He was supposed to stay out of sight. I only sent him to look after you, since I couldn’t be there,” Merlin explained, though finding out that Arthur hadn’t been fooled at all by Archimedes stealthy tracking was a tad embarrassing.

“As though the fleet of knights my father sent wasn’t already enough?” Arthur snorted. He crossed his arms and Merlin could see how much simmering resentment lay below the surface over the very idea that he needed to be looked after. “I don’t need any more protection. You can’t honestly tell me that you came to Camelot on the off chance that you’d find a Prince that fit your ideals of nobility. Because I would say that you’ve traveled a long way for nothing. What could have possibly compelled you to come here in the first place, the one kingdom where using magic is punishable by death?”

That was a loaded question if Merlin had ever heard one. He drew a deep breath, uncomfortably aware that he was honor bound to provide Arthur with an explanation, even one so close to his final secret that it made the words sit thick and heavy on his tongue. There were plenty of painful truths that Merlin did not relish the thought of revealing or even hinting at, namely and especially that he was from a time where he’d been involved in a war against a crazed and bloodthirsty version of the boy in front of him. Things were still too fresh between them and Arthur did not need to be burdened with knowledge of such a bleak future, no matter how diligently Merlin was working toward preventing it.

“I know it might sound hard to believe, but I once met someone with deep ties to the Old Religion, a prophet I suppose you could say. He told me of a destiny – yours and mine, and that we’re tied together. They called us ‘two sides of the same coin,’ a silly metaphor that took many years to finally make sense to me. In the end it was my choice to make, whether to believe in this destiny or not, and I chose to come to you. Even if that means I… I will do everything in my power to keep you from harm. That is the promise I have sworn to myself, and to you.”

Merlin had to look away from Arthur’s face, feeling the echo of another conversation years old in the moment, one that had not even occurred yet and might never need to. The last time he’d told Arthur the same words the Prince had been too heavily medicated to do more than blearily accuse Merlin of being thick and making no sense, but here he was again, pledging his life to Arthur and the Prince wasn’t even old enough to grow a beard.

“The Old Religion? I thought that magic hated Camelot,” Arthur said, frowning in confusion.

Merlin shook his head and rubbed gently at the lingering ache in his jaw. His headache had all but disappeared now that the yelling had stopped but he could still feel an echo of it and the pain of the punch Arthur had thrown. “I won’t deny that there are people who would love to see Camelot brought down and Uther dethroned, but one group’s actions don’t speak for the whole. After everything I’ve taught you? You should know better than anyone that magic is a tool, that it is an instrument of faith. It’s the people who choose to hate or love and whether to use magic for good or evil. They can use it to protect people they care about, or use it to fight a war. It is what it is.”

“You’ve said that before,” Arthur conceded, arms at his sides as he warmed himself by the heat being given off from the stove. Merlin could see how much color had returned to his face and that his hair had curled up around his neck and ears as it dried. He looked older than Merlin remembered, as if a week had somehow made him grow a little taller, made his chest a little broader, and that little boy he’d met only a year ago seemed so far away. And yet this Arthur seemed more familiar somehow, closer to the Arthur he remembered, the prat Prince of Camelot that had teased him and dragged him everywhere and had laid his life down for Merlin and his people and had been a friend unlike anyone Merlin had ever known. And he missed him.

“Merlin?” Arthur asked. He was returning Merlin’s stare, and his eyes were cautiously puzzled by whatever expression had stolen over Merlin’s face in his moment of introspection. Merlin couldn’t help flushing a bit at the scrutiny.

“Sorry. It’s nothing. Should you still be here? It’s gotten rather late, sire.”

“You can’t order me out of a room in my own castle,” Arthur reprimanded, but it was half-hearted at best. Merlin could see the telling signs of fatigue in the droop of the Prince’s eyes and the sag of his shoulders, and considering how hard they’d ridden toward Camelot it may have been longer than a single evening since Arthur had slept. Merlin had enough to think about without worrying about a Prince falling ill from exposure and lack of sleep. He also had a feeling they could both use some respective time apart, given what secrets had been exposed tonight. There was still a lingering edge to Arthur, a brittleness that Merlin knew meant the Prince was still deciding exactly just how much this had affected his trust and whether forgiveness would be slow in coming, if it came at all.

“No, I cannot, but I should like to use my bed sometime tonight since I’ve recently discovered I won’t be spending the time enjoying the straw floor of a dungeon cell.”

Arthur glared at him for a moment before he looked away and rolled his shoulders with a sigh. “Very well, but I have need of your services tomorrow morning. It’s what I came here to tell you, before…” Arthur rotated his hand vaguely to indicate the room. “Though considering the circumstances it has some irony now.”

Merlin shuffled closer to the room’s stove and leaned his hip against the table opposite Arthur. “What do you mean?”

“Two days ago we passed through Lord Wimborne’s tithing. We were told that a man had been arrested on charges of sorcery shortly before our arrival.” Arthur paused to stare pointedly at Merlin before continuing. “He’s the middle son of a wealthy merchant, who I was informed has been unusually successful in his business this past year. Wimborne seems to despise the family despite what liberties their coin buys in his demesne. I initially suspected their prosperity may have simply bread jealousy among the nobility, but when I inquired about the charges several books were presented to me as evidence of his guilt.

“No one can read the language they’re written in, though Wimborne maintains that as reason enough to arrest him. The charged man claims that they are nothing more than harmless texts gained through his father’s travels, but without a proper translation of their contents how much of this is truth remains unknown. Unfortunately his word holds little weight against Wimborne’s malignity, which I suspect comes more from the man being in love with the lord’s daughter than a true crime of sorcery.”

“That’s horrible, if he is being wrongly accused,” Merlin said with a sympathetic frown, though it ached his face to do so. “What exactly do you need my help with?”

Arthur stared pensively at the stove for a moment. “Before I left the manor I invoked my father’s laws and the right of the accused to a fair trial. He was forced to agree to hold the man an additional five days while I assembled my resources. That’s you, Merlin. I need you to translate the texts. I’m certain that I’ve seen volumes in your collection containing the same foreign language. If my hunch is correct it should provide the necessary evidence to rescind the accusations. I won’t see a man put to death under false charges.”

“And if the books really are texts of magic? What then?” Merlin asked, watching Arthur’s profile intently.

The Prince pushed himself away from the table and turned to meet Merlin’s gaze levelly. “Would you lie to me if they were?”

Merlin bit his lip and blew out a long sigh. He shook his head. “I wouldn’t, no. But I can’t in good conscience help convict a man-”

Arthur lifted a forestalling hand and Merlin fell silent with some reluctance. “I will be putting a great deal of trust in you to be honest with me, and I only ask that you trust me in return.”

“Arthur I know you’re loyal to your father but you must know the King’s laws are unfair-”

“Merlin!” Arthur snapped impatiently.

Merlin glared irritably and remained silent, though it took a great deal of effort. This got him an equally fierce stare of annoyance in return and when a log popped in the stove the sound was unnaturally loud in the quiet. The rain was little more than a whisper outside the tower and out of the corner of his eye Merlin could see nothing but a constant stream of water cascading down the window behind where Arthur stood.

Merlin was well aware of the futility of swaying Arthur away from being faithfully obedient to his father’s laws. It was always a losing battle to persuade Arthur to admit that just because his father was King it made the laws right. But in this he was prepared to employ all of his obstinacy if that’s what it took to get his point across. Stubbornness didn’t always succeed when dealing with Arthur, but Merlin preferred a stalemate to letting the Prince win without even a fight.

But to Merlin’s surprise, Arthur broke their staring contest first with an exaggerated eye roll. “Leave it, Merlin. You’ll give yourself an aneurysm if you attempt to think any harder.”

Annoyed with having his train of thought derailed, Merlin huffed derisively. “You can’t hurt yourself by _thinking_.”

Arthur merely snorted and headed for the tower door. “You would be the first to prove countless generations of physicians wrong,” he said as he stepped over the threshold, leaving those parting words hanging in the air as the door closed behind him.

Merlin pressed his lips together as he stared at the unremarkable dark wood, his cheek throbbing warmly from the blood pooling under the skin. Arthur’s flippant mockery could have been a sign for a positive turn-around, but Merlin knew better than to believe things had changed so readily for the better. It was a relief to know that he wasn’t going to be chased out of Camelot but whether or not Arthur would ever trust him again remained to be seen. Merlin wanted to feel glad that the truth had finally come out, to no longer have the burden of his secret weighing upon every other gesture of honesty he’d made with Arthur, but the emotion was simply nowhere to be found. Instead he could feel a slow churning anxiety just below the surface of his jumbled thoughts, a physical unease that was leaving his hands cold and his stomach ill. He couldn’t imagine that sleep would be coming easily to him tonight.

After a moment Merlin straightened and snapped the fingers on his right hand, the bolt in the door sliding through with a resounding click. He really needed to remember to check that it remained locked more often.


	12. Chapter 12

The next morning brought more rain, or at least Merlin could only assume that the sun had eventually risen beyond the thick blanket of clouds covering Camelot. As the hours progressed the sky remained one unbroken monotone gray that merely lightened marginally as the dawn came and went, leaving the world below in the muted gloom of rain streaked walls and muddy thoroughfares. When Merlin emerged from his rooms it was with the lurching gait of a man that had barely slept the night before, carrying several reference books, a roll of clean parchment, and a container of quills and ink clutched to his chest as he made his own down the tower staircase. His possessions would be little defense against a battalion of guards coming to sweep him away to the dungeons, but they did give his hands something to grip to disguise the tremors of fatigue running under his skin. The gilded mirrors he passed in the castle hallways showed nothing of the dark rings under his eyes or the purpling bruise on his jaw, but the illusion of age fell short of masking the unease readily apparent in his pupils, and his eyes were red rimmed and dry with the look of a man who had spent a night with far more things than sleep on his mind.

Everywhere Merlin turned the atmosphere in the castle showed itself to be abnormally subdued, though the morning’s activities were no less hectic than they usually were just after sunrise. It was the unusual quiet that seemed to pervade everything, the lack of loud conversation or noisemaking that normally accompanied the bustle and workload of a large keep preparing for the day. Everything felt damp and cold and Merlin could hear the rain falling clearly when his journey took him past glass paned windows or where the roof sat only a story or two above, and the people who he saw in passing were similarly dreary in their countenance. Servants walked with their eyes downcast, shoulders carried with a forward hunch, and even the finer dressed residents spoke in low voices or seemed to move as if the dampness had sapped away the life in their bones. Merlin might have suspected magic of having a hand in it had he not known that even the slightest hint would have been easy to feel on a scale so large. It seemed Nature was simply intent on pouring its sorrows upon their heads, so the rain continued to fall and Camelot was washed out and all the more dull for it.

When Merlin reached Arthur’s rooms he took a moment to collect himself outside the door, searching for a center of inner calm that stayed mostly elusive. He reminded himself once more to cling to the only ray of optimism he held at the moment: he was still within Camelot even though his secret as a sorcerer had been revealed. Even so, there was the possibility that Arthur might change his mind and drive him out of the castle or turn Merlin over to the King’s guard and attempt to have him arrested. Gods forbid, he could even implicate Gaius in some manner if he ever caught wind that the physician knew Merlin’s identity as well. It was promising that Arthur had asked him to come on good faith to make the translations and Merlin had neither seen nor heard guards in the corridors since, but he knew he would have to remain extra cautious if he wanted to mitigate the risk of putting Gaius or himself in danger. Arthur’s penchant for throwing people in the dungeons was something that Merlin knew he hadn’t grown out of even as an adult and giving the Prince cause to do so now was the last thing he desired.

Merlin straightened his shoulders and, with careful politeness, knocked three times on Arthur’s chamber door.

Several minutes later the door opened, long enough that Merlin had reigned in the impulse thrice over to knock again more loudly. Arthur was dressed and presentable, which may have explained the delay, though Merlin spied the remains of breakfast sitting on the table beyond the open door.

Merlin inclined his head, not meeting Arthur’s eyes. “I’ve come to review the books as you’ve requested, sire.”

There was a momentary pause while Arthur said nothing, before the feet in Merlin’s field of view moved aside. “Very well, come in.”

Merlin moved inside and walked over to the long table to place his books and writing instruments on the clear end. Arthur shut the door behind him and headed in the opposite direction deeper into his bedroom, coming back once he’d removed a stack of three slim books from inside one of his bureaus. Merlin had pulled up one of the empty chairs to the table and Arthur placed the books next to the others that he had brought in. Merlin reached for the first in the stack and flipped it open, then glanced up when he noticed that Arthur had yet to move away.

“Was there something else, sire?” he asked, an unwanted surge of apprehension tightening his gut.

Arthur’s expression was neutral and unrevealing, and it changed briefly into a frown before clearing away. “No. I’ll leave you to work.”

Merlin expected Arthur to leave after that, would have preferred to be left alone in all honesty, but the Prince merely procured another book from the low table at his bedside and took it with him to a plush looking chair beneath one of the room’s windows. There was no helpful sunlight to be gleaned through the cloud cover but Merlin suspected it to be a favorite reading spot, judging by the way the chair seemed to fit perfectly to the easy slump of the Prince’s back, a posture that Merlin had witnessed a fair number of times within his own tower. What reading light there was came from the numerous torches lit around the room and the fire that blazed warmly from within the hearth to Merlin’s right, and there was an iron candelabrum almost a head taller than Arthur wedged into the corner behind his reading chair that seemed placed there just for that particular purpose. Merlin watched Arthur settle into his reading out of the corner of his eye, hoping to conceal his wary observation, but Arthur neither looked back nor seemed inclined to take further note of Merlin’s presence as he became engrossed in his book. It was a small blessing, but Merlin couldn’t help the prickle of awareness against the side of his neck in the direction where Arthur sat; he knew full well that the Prince kept plenty of sharp objects hidden in his room within easy reaching distance.

The minutes slipped by in silence as Merlin worked on deciphering the text of the first book and he threw himself into the task deeply enough that he entirely missed the quiet knock on the chamber door a half hour later. It wasn’t until after the servant had entered Arthur’s room that Merlin noticed the intrusion, and he watched with half an eye as the woman cleared away the breakfast plates from the other end of the table, quill held motionless and dripping tiny blots of ink onto the parchment. Arthur did not glance up once from his book, though Merlin saw her bow in the Prince’s direction and then, oddly, in his as well before departing again. The false tranquility returned after that, with Arthur’s occasional page turning mostly lost in the crackle of the fire and the patter of the rain beating against the room’s narrow windows. Merlin shifted in his chair after a time, wincing inwardly at the squeak of protest it made. He resisted the temptation to look over but could have sworn that he felt eyes boring into the side of his head. It was quite possibly the work of his imagination. He tried not to think otherwise.

Merlin wasn’t so overconfident in his non-magical abilities that he thought he could translate all of the books in their entirety, though Arthur had been correct that there were volumes written in the same language on his book shelf. The alphabet of the text was not one he’d had reason to translate often, and in fact Merlin now remembered that he’d acquired most of the books because the merchant who had pushed them into his hands had been insistent that they contained rare scientific discoveries. It had taken a few more purchases to obtain the necessary dictionaries, which of course the man also had in his wares, and Merlin had been driven by enough desperation at the time that he’d let his curiosity get the better of him. It had taken much longer for him to devise the spell that would produce the translated words onto another sheet of parchment, but using magic in front of Arthur at such a critical time wasn’t even an option. Luckily one of the books he’d brought down with him had in fact been one of the corresponding dictionaries, though the Latin letters taking shape under his right hand were proving more difficult to translate.

Merlin set down his quill when he had half a sheet of what seemed to amount to mostly gibberish and ran a hand through his hair, huffing quietly with the first hints of frustration. He scooted forward and left his elbow propped on the tabletop, rubbing absently at his upper lip while he quietly sounded out the phonetics on the sheet and checked the words against the book he’d brought from his room. His quiet muttering was intended to be as unobtrusive as possible, so he was startled when Arthur appeared unexpectedly near his elbow.

“Have you figured it out then?” Arthur asked as Merlin’s head snapped up. He was peering down at Merlin’s notes, frowning at the messy collection of letters.

Merlin exhaled sharply and shook his head. He leaned back in the chair and pulled the sheet closer to him. “Nothing so far. The text isn’t difficult to convert to Latin characters, but the words aren’t matching up to anything in the dictionary. I could try transcribing a different passage or one of the other books, but… I suspect it will be more of the same.”

“Could it be written in some sort of code?” Arthur asked. Going by the slant to his eyes, the Prince seemed keen on discovering that this might be the case.

Merlin shrugged noncommittally, having already considered and dismissed the possibility himself. The text was too straightforward, and his experience had taught him on several occasions that the simpler answer was often the correct one. “It’s possible, but… more likely it’s simply in another language.”

“But you’ve just translated it,” Arthur pointed out, tapping one of the open pages of the confiscated book. He scowled at Merlin, and the look of suspicion there was one that Merlin was unhappy to realize he could read quite easily. He supposed he deserved nothing less, but it still stung.

“Into something we can read? Yes. But something we can understand? No,” Merlin answered shortly, reaching across the table to pull the book out from under Arthur’s finger. It gave way only after Arthur lifted his hand and Merlin stifled a grunt as the book slid abruptly across the rough wood. How Arthur always managed to rile him up so easily, he would never know. He was supposed to be using caution around the Prince, not getting into a snipping match that might end up with him saying more than he intended.

Unwrapping his hands from the books and ignoring Arthur’s pointed stare, Merlin forced himself to relax. He should simply view this as another lesson, since it would be familiar ground for both of them. He cleared his throat.

“At the moment, all I know for certain is that the written text is called Ge’ez. The language that most commonly uses it shares the same name. The people who speak it come from a country somewhere in Africana, but after seeing these books… I think it might be safe to say that more than one spoken language shares same writing system. The same way many spoken languages on the continent all share the Latin alphabet. I once saw a reference made in the same language in an Arabic treatise on stellar motions, just to give you a better idea of how obscure and distant these people are. I honestly never expected to come across another book written in the same language in Albion.”

Arthur sighed noisily. “The geographic lesson is all well and good, Merlin, but isn’t the point. Do they contain magic?” he asked with his usual impatience, both hands now braced on the table.

“I can’t know unless I have a correct translation,” Merlin said. This wasn’t entirely true, but at the moment he was hardly about to do anything to remind Arthur that another sorcerer was sitting at his table when this was exactly the charge they were attempting to investigate.

After a moment Arthur muttered something unintelligible and pulled out one of the chairs to sit down across from Merlin. His folded arms rested on the table as he leaned over the books, looking intent and a little annoyed. “I won’t return without solid evidence. A man’s life is at stake.”

Merlin fought the urge to roll his eyes. “Yes, I know that.”

“Then what do you need to complete the translation?”

Magic, Merlin wanted to say, but knew he couldn’t voice the thought aloud. He leaned back and folded his hands in his lap. “More time? I could check my books, see if I have anything else that might help. Perhaps Geoffrey has something in his collection.”

“And if you don’t?” Arthur pressed.

“Then… my options become very limited.” Merlin must have hesitated a moment too long to give his answer, because Arthur’s eyes narrowed.

“There’s something you’re not telling me.”

“Do you want me to work on translating the books or not?” Merlin asked curtly, side-stepping the accusation.

Arthur glared. “Your impertinence is astounding, as always. If this is difficult because of your… _condition_ , I have no trouble seeking alternate means to get the information I need. Your assistance is a matter of convenience only.”

Feeling unexpectedly hurt by Arthur’s cold rebuttal, Merlin shifted his gaze toward the windows opposite him, watching the way the rainwater streaked over the beveled glass. It left a bitter taste in his mouth to be spoken of as a tool that could be replaced so easily. He’d always considered his skills to be valuable, more so than any common scholar, and it was something he didn’t realize until now that he was seeking recognition from Arthur for. He was beginning to regret some of the wariness he’d been showing now that Arthur was actually threatening to replace him, though it was difficult to control his barely caged fears that this pretend calm was merely a prelude to a much worse storm than he’d previously endured. By all rights, Arthur was continuing to break the law at this very moment for him, something his future self hadn’t granted Merlin even a moment of the last time. His ingratitude was only making him look more like an ass, but the bottom line was that learning to trust Arthur was proving to be a lot more wearing on his nerves than he could have guessed.

Merlin shook his head and lifted a hand to pinch the bridge of his nose. “That won’t be necessary. I apologize for being short-tempered. I wasn’t able to sleep well and it’s wearing on me.”

“Apology accepted,” Arthur said, and Merlin glanced through his fingers to see the Prince looking far less frustrated than he had a moment ago. When their eyes met Arthur looked down and studied the wood tabletop for a moment, giving Merlin nothing but the top of his blond head reflecting the flickering glow of the firelight. “Merlin, you… what transpired last night…”

“I apologize for that as well,” Merlin interjected, suddenly in quite a hurry to get this part of his apology out before he lost his nerve, and his hand curled into a fist as he placed it back atop the table. “I was wrong to lie to you. I shouldn’t have made assumptions. You have every right to be angry with me. If I’ve lost your trust it would be no less than what I justly deserve.”

Arthur huffed audibly. “Your sentiment is misplaced, as you would know if you’d let me finish,” he drawled edgily. He didn’t seem interested in looking at Merlin this time either, choosing instead to regard the mantel above the fireplace opposite him. “I may have been… that is, I’ve had time to reflect on your situation. Given the circumstances I can understand concealing the truth for the sake of protecting your life. I may have had my suspicions but I could never bring myself to ask you directly for answers, which I’ve realized puts you at no fault for breaking the promise you made. Considering the nature of our first encounter I know that I may not have given you reason to trust me with that knowledge.”

“You are fond of bringing sharp things near my head,” Merlin agreed, somewhat surprised but appreciating the apology for what it was worth. “I know it probably means very little now in retrospect, but I’ve spent lots of time the past few months trying to think of a way to tell you. The opportunity never seemed right or my anxiety got the better of me. I have difficulty… well, I don’t trust others easily. Finding out the way you did may have been for the best.”

“I’ve asked myself whether that’s true,” Arthur said quietly. He did meet Merlin’s eyes as he turned to face him, and his features were unexpectedly grave. “You’ve put both of our lives in danger. I cannot protect you from Camelot’s laws if you are discovered.”

“I think you’re forgetting that I’m here to protect you, sire,” Merlin corrected. Arthur’s skeptical expression stayed firmly in place, announcing the Prince’s thoughts clear as day, and Merlin couldn’t help breaking out a small smile.

“You may have dispatched a band of armed men with some proficiency, but I’ve known you as the codger prone to tripping over his own feet for far longer than some mysterious man who saved my life one night. It would be more in line with your personality if the whole incident had been a fluke.”

Merlin chuckled and, without thinking too much about it, whispered the spell to remove his disguise. Arthur’s eyes widened as the years melted away to reveal his true face, clean-shaven and unblemished save for the lingering bruise on his jawbone, hair black as coal and none of the gray streaks feathering away from his temple that had been there before. Merlin looked away self-consciously as Arthur’s blue eyes remained steadfastly fixed, tracing over his features as if he were committing Merlin’s true appearance to memory.

“Is this more convincing?” Merlin asked after a moment.

“Hm,” Arthur hummed noncommittally. His eyes slid down Merlin’s torso, alighting on the hands which were also free of wrinkles and the spots of age that had marred them before. They moved off after a moment and returned to Merlin’s face. “You still don’t look strong enough to carry a sword. One well-aimed thrust and you would be dead.”

Merlin supposed that given the things Arthur had frequently said about his weak frame and poorly developed reflexes in the past, this was hardly the worst insult to his fighting skills he’d ever heard. And he did have to concede that, if he were looking upon himself as an observer for the first time, he probably would have formed a very similar opinion. Hand-to-hand combat and the use of weaponry were not his strong suit. “I assure you that I’ve taken the time to develop enough skills in other areas to make up for it, both offensively and defensively,” he said. “One does not stand on a battlefield without taking the necessary precautions.”

Arthur blinked and his brows furrowed with interest. “You’re not speaking of that time at the bandit camp. You’ve truly seen action before. I was certain you were blustering that day on the practice field.”

“I’m full of surprises,” Merlin agreed self-deprecatingly.

“You’re not much older than I, and I cannot imagine you squaring off against full grown men while still planting crops in your home village. So it must not have been so very long ago,” Arthur surmised with undisguised curiosity.

Merlin took a moment to think and count back the months it had been since he’d come to Camelot, and then the seven months prior when he’d last stood on an outcropping of mossy boulders and faced down one of the smaller arms of the Pendragon’s army. He was walking dangerously close to revealing more about his past than he cared to or thought Arthur was ready to hear, if even admitting so much to the Prince was a possibility. “Fifteen months, more or less.”

Arthur’s brows arched up. “For how long?”

Much, much longer than Merlin cared to remember. He looked away and laid his hands flat over the sheets of paper they’d been neglecting between them. “Shouldn’t I return to translating these for you, sire?”

Arthur snorted. “You’re not deflecting me that easily. What were you, a mercenary? I can’t see you laying down your life for a King you had no lost love over.”

“I suppose I was,” Merlin admitted with some reluctance, realizing that Arthur would not let go of this until he’d drawn enough answers out of Merlin to his satisfaction. He was at that age when battles and conquests always made his eyes light up avidly during their lessons. “We’d been engaged for two and a half years by then. After I left to… pursue other interests, I learned that the war had continued on in my absence. I witnessed more death and bloodshed than I ever cared to see in my lifetime, and did unspeakable things to my enemies that I am not proud of recalling. I was glad to leave it all behind.”

Arthur had leaned in closer across the table while listening, but when Merlin said no more he frowned in disappointment. “Surely there’s more? Here I thought to hear some unexciting tale about being in service to a lord and dealing with marauders or expanding his territory. War between whom? There haven’t been any major conflicts in more than a decade, and even the outlying kingdoms have enough diplomatic treaties in place that prevent engagements that last on the order of years. Where would… were you on the continent? What could have possessed you to go off and fight in some war on foreign soil? And what army would have you when all you can use is sorcery? The Catholics have all but taken over and they hate magic more than my father.”

Arthur was far too shrewd and he’d accurately nailed the missing details of Merlin’s story. It was impressive, if a little unnerving, and Merlin had made a promise to be honest with the Prince as much as it would pain him to do so. He’d already tried once to reroute the conversation but Arthur had stumbled upon the one subject matter that he was least likely to let go of, especially now that he’d gleaned that the details Merlin had left unsaid were probably the most interesting of them all.

“This is a conversation best suited for elsewhere,” Merlin said, a creeping feeling of resignation falling over him. He shut the covers of the books he’d left open and shoved his loose papers together to make them into a better pile to carry. Arthur seemed to catch on quickly and helped by returning the ink and quills to their box, and they stood up together once everything was cleaned away.

“Your tower, then?” Arthur asked. His voice had gone soft, a little bit of intrigue slipping through that nearly made Merlin want to smile. Shared secrets indeed. Yet they hadn’t even scratched the surface of what Merlin had kept hidden away all this time.

A glance out the window showed that the storm was losing the battle against the warmer air of day. The clouds had broken up enough to let narrow beams of sunlight through and the rain pattering softly against the glass was falling with much less ferocity than the steady downfall they’d been enduring earlier. By afternoon the clouds might break apart entirely, giving them their first welcome taste of sunlight in days. “Let’s go outdoors,” Merlin said, nodding toward the window. “I know you’ve just got back but I need to get out. We’ve been stuck in this damp castle for almost a week.”

Arthur shrugged in agreement. “Very well.”

“I suppose...” Merlin paused and reached for the first book he’d begun to decipher. Arthur watched him as he picked it up and placed his hand palm down on the smooth leather, fingers tracing over the foreign lettering etched into the cover. “I know that’s not much to go on, but… most of the time I can sense these things. If there’s magic in an object, or if a book contains words of power meant to control magic, I would be able to feel it. But I can’t feel anything in these. They’re lifeless, just sheets of parchment bound together.”

Merlin glanced up and met Arthur’s eyes. “That’s what I wasn’t telling you before. And I have spells I’ve created that can translate these books for me. But this is the quickest way to confirm or deny if there’s magic in them. Your man is innocent.”

“And there’s no way he could hide this… thing that you sense?” Arthur asked, but his question was more curious than accusatory.

“If he could then he would have to be more powerful than me, and I’ve yet to know someone who is.” Merlin couldn’t help smirking when Arthur rolled his eyes. No doubt he thought Merlin was being pretentious, though he hadn’t been lying in the slightest.

“I suppose I shall have to take your word for it then,” Arthur concluded. He frowned briefly. “I’ll need to obtain my father’s seal to have the man pardoned, and the less mentioned of sorcery to him the better. Winborne’s nothing but an ingratiating worm with small land holdings, and the last thing my father needs to hear is that someone else is taking up his crusade against magic.”

“Perhaps play up the rivalries with the fathers or the love affair with the lord’s daughter?” Merlin suggested as they headed for the door, arms laden with books and his quills and ink.

“It’s worth considering,” Arthur agreed. He looked up at Merlin as they came to stand side-by-side and Merlin once more found himself on the end of a curiously intense stare, one that made him shift and look away when Arthur’s eyes remained fastened to his face.

“It’s just the same one I’ve worn all my life,” Merlin griped, feeling a little annoyed by his own uneasy self-consciousness.

“You really do look awful,” Arthur declared, maybe a little surprised that Merlin hadn’t been exaggerating about his sleepless evening.

“Someone landed a punch square on my face,” Merlin retorted, fingering his chin but avoiding the spot where the bruising was worst. “Imagine the looks I would have gotten if I’d walked around with this all day.”

“I have an ointment,” Arthur said dismissively, turning away. “You may have use of it when we return.”

Merlin invoked the spell to disguise himself once again before they left, garnering another wide-eyed stare from Arthur while it took effect, and the next quarter hour was spent mostly in silence as they ascended the steps to Merlin’s tower, deposited his reference volumes on the table with instructions for the books to see themselves put away, and then down several staircases and through a number of corridors that took them out through one of the side entrances close to mason’s workshop. There was no rain falling at present but clumps of gray clouds drifted with remarkable speed overhead, and in the distance Merlin could see the tell-tale streaks of dark mist hanging over areas of the forest and the across the valley beyond. A dome shaped kiln extended from the side of the building and Merlin could feel some of the heat of the furnace coming through the stones where they stood; the warmth was wholly welcomed as the wind outside was colder than he’d expected and he drew his robes more tightly around himself.

The space didn’t exactly cater to privacy however, and after a minute Merlin sighed and moved on toward the downward slope that led to the training grounds on the far side of the castle. Arthur followed along without a word, but his smirk told Merlin that he wasn’t unaware of Merlin’s desire to remain closer to more rudimentary comforts. The grassy hill was slippery and they descended carefully in a line, the cold wind whipping past them as they made their way past slick patches of mud and around exposed boulders the same chalky white color as the castle’s foundations behind them. When they reached level ground Arthur took the lead and walked them around the field, avoiding the muddy jousting grounds on the far side until even those were some distance behind them. They hadn’t left what was technically still considered the castle grounds but they’d put at least two tiers of crumbling walls between them and the keep, remnants of an earlier time when Camelot’s fortress had been little more than rough timbers and cobbled masonry.

The view from this side of the castle was impressive, and though Merlin had always enjoyed being able to look upon the lower town and courtyard from his tower the expanse in this direction was infinitely more awe inspiring. The long valley that Camelot rested in was not uniformly flat by any means and Uther’s predecessors had built the structure atop a natural stone formation, a towering bluff that gradually evened out in one direction and dropped sharply down the other. It didn’t take any stretch of the imagination to realize that much of the castle’s stone and foundations had been quarried from the same mound it rested on, which probably accounted for the sharply jagged appearance of the cliffside after so many years of being harvested. It may have once been a more symmetrical plateau but man and weather had worn it down to the remarkably defensible structure it was presently, and few would be foolish enough to attempt to scale the white bluffs when footing was treacherous and it was all too easy to be spotted.

Arthur led them a little farther until they reached a natural stone bench half buried in the earth, a jagged split through the stone cutting halfway through the middle that gave it a natural symmetry. Merlin had a feeling that the too-perfect square edges hinted at it once being a piece of cut stone for the castle above them, discarded and forgotten here due to its imperfection. Arthur had to hop up a little to sit on the broad edge, leaving his booted feet dangling in the air and giving him a much younger appearance than the one Merlin had been becoming accustomed to lately. Merlin walked to the far side and flicked his fingers over the rain splattered seat, sending a spray of water arcing into the air so the surface was bone dry underneath.

Arthur scowled. “Are you always so careless with your magic?”

Merlin shrugged as he sat down. “I used to be a lot more scared about getting caught. I can’t say it doesn’t weigh on my mind sometimes, especially being here. But I stopped trying to suppress my magic a long time ago.” He swiveled his head to peer at the young man next to him. “I won’t ever use it to endanger my own life, if that’s what you’re thinking. I hope you’ll trust me on that point.”

Arthur scowled back as Merlin watched him, but the expression cleared with visible reluctance after a moment and the Prince looked away. “I’ll accept your word then, for now.”

Merlin allowed himself a minute to study Arthur’s features in profile before he turned back to admire the vast view in front of them. He had to admit that getting out of doors had been a good idea; already he could feel the heaviness of the damp castle lifting from his mood, one that he knew had lingered close to depression while Arthur had been away on his patrol and the rain had given him few outlets to alleviate his boredom. The events of the previous night had hardly been a pleasant homecoming, but sitting here now… Merlin could forget the ache in his jaw and how miserable he’d felt up until an hour or two ago. Being alone with Arthur, away from the four walls that he suspected they both felt rather trapped inside of at times, he could finally appreciate that he hadn’t been thrown in the dungeons last night or driven out of Camelot on the tip of Arthur’s dagger. It gave Merlin courage that perhaps the rest of his story could be accepted, too.

“You tried to teach me swordplay a few times, over there,” Merlin began, heart beating fast enough to make his palms tingle as he nodded toward a bit of muddy ground a few dozen yards away from where they sat. “I could never pick up the maneuvers, but I got good at dodging after enough hits from the flat side of your sword.”

Arthur blinked in outright confusion. “What are you nattering on about? We’ve never been here before. Have you grown senile?”

Merlin didn’t answer and instead glanced above them toward the castle towering at their backs on the bluff. They were almost entirely isolated and the weather was likely keeping most of the staff indoors, which meant that enjoying a few liberties would probably not lead to any disastrous consequences. He let his disguise fall away and sighed, feeling more nostalgic for earlier times than he’d expected to feel at this moment.

“Merlin what are you talking about?” Arthur demanded.

“I’m going to tell you a story,” Merlin replied, looking away from the scowl of annoyance on Arthur’s face. For a moment he watched the gray clouds that sped overhead past their quiet niche, seeing breaks in the cover and blue sky and larger white clouds beyond; where the sunlight managed to fall through it bathed the earth in shades of yellow and shimmering green, dazzling light that reflected off the abundance of water that coated everything. Merlin took a deep breath, gathering strength from the scent of the earth and the fresh grass, and let his memories unfurl as he began to speak.

“At this very moment, there’s a young farm boy living with his mother on the edge of Cendred’s kingdom. The name of the village is Ealdor, the same one you once asked me about. This boy’s almost the same age as you, I’d say younger by a year or so. His mother is kind and hardworking and he has a best friend he’s known since they were in swaddling. But he has a secret, something he’s been told to hide, and they’re the only two people who know that there’s something different about him. He has these abilities, these weird powers that he can’t explain or put a name to. He can move things with his mind and make things happen just by thinking hard, and sometimes he even controls time, make things slow down for everyone but him. He doesn’t know anything about magic or spells, or why he can do what he does. It just is. Not good or evil. He’s just a boy trying to live a normal life.

“In a few years from now, when the boy is a young man, his mother will send him to Camelot to become an apprentice to Gaius. Don’t ask me how I know, just trust me,” Merlin instructed, holding up a hand as he spotted Arthur opening his mouth to speak out of the corner of his eye. Arthur’s jaw snapped shut but his eyes narrowed with annoyance at being ordered to remain silent. Merlin took a moment to appreciate how miraculous it was that he obeyed at all, which gave him the time to marshal his thoughts toward the next part of his tale.

“Going to Camelot is supposed to keep him out of trouble and give him somewhere to start over, give him a chance and have a life away from a village that always thought him a bit weird in the head. Except the boy is cocky, his powers make him ignorant and too proud. On the second day he runs into this bloke who’s bullying one of the squires, so he steps in and tries to stop it. They get into a fight and he’s even stupid enough to throw a punch. He should have let it go but he’s too full of himself to bite his tongue. See, he didn’t know it at the time but he tried to hit the crowned Prince, and that’s how he lands himself in jail for the first time.”

Merlin’s lips twitched in amusement, remembering quite well the details of those heated run-ins with Arthur. He’d never met someone who infuriated and got his blood to boiling as quickly as Arthur had. “Gaius gets him released and makes him promise to behave, but it doesn’t last long. Wherever he goes it’s like the Prince is always there and they get into another row, worse than the first time. It’s like there’s something about them that makes them want to strangle each other. He’s convinced the Prince is just a bully and a showoff – though I imagine the Prince doesn’t think so highly of him either, this knobby-kneed village boy calling him names and picking fights. They’re like oil and water, completely opposite in every way.

“But then during a feast a witch tries to kill the Prince. She wants revenge for the death of her son and without thinking about it the boy saves the Prince’s life. Everyone sees it happen right there in the open so the King rewards him by making him the Prince’s manservant. It’s probably the worst reward ever and they’re even more awful to each other after that. The Prince makes him muck out stables and throws him in the stocks just to have a laugh, and they argue about everything. But the boy realizes after awhile that the Prince isn’t always so bad. He just acts like a prat most of the time because he’s used to getting his way. Sometimes he’s good and actually thinks of other people first. So the boy, this young man, decides he’ll keep on using his powers to save the Prince, especially when he’s being particularly idiotic. The Prince even goes out of his way to save his life not even two weeks after they’ve known each other. It takes time but they stop arguing as much and learn to trust each other.

“But the young man is an idiot. He practices his magic in secret, learning how to cast spells that let him save the Prince’s life from monsters and curses and other sorcerers, but he never once tells the Prince his secret. He keeps it hidden because he’s scared… he’s so afraid of being caught and executed, or being forced to leave Camelot and not being able to protect the Prince anymore. But really… the real truth is that he’s afraid of hurting the Prince. They’ve come so far and gotten so close that sometimes he thinks… he hopes that they’ve become friends. But the longer he keeps his secret the more the Prince begins to hate magic. Monsters and sorcerers keep trying to kill him or deceive him, and he never knows that his manservant was saving him using magic too. And then one day… one day the young man steps in front of an assassin right in front of the entire court. The attack would have killed the Prince but he uses his magic and everyone sees him do it to protect him. It happens too fast for him to think about it, he moves without thinking. He doesn’t know just how terribly it will change everything.”

Merlin stopped to take an indrawn breath and it shuddered uneasily through his frame. He couldn’t help rubbing his shoulder where the scar of Arthur’s unbridled rage lay hidden under the fabric, as if he could somehow unconsciously push back the pain of the memories. Arthur had not tried to interrupt again but Merlin couldn’t bring himself to over at him; there was so much left to tell, and one wrong glance might cause him to lose his nerve entirely.

“The King orders him arrested but he escapes and hides in the forest. So the King goes after Gaius instead, because he helped a sorcerer and kept him secret under the King’s own roof. It’s the quickest trial anyone’s ever seen and then, he… he burns Gaius and everything he owns, all his books and medicines, everything. The boy comes back to the castle when he sees the smoke but it’s too late. Gaius is already gone. So he sneaks into the Prince’s room, he doesn’t know where else to go. He wants to tell him everything, tell him the truth about their destiny. Tell him how many times he’s saved his life. How much he means to him. But the Prince won’t listen to a word he says. He’s angry, more than angry… he’s a completely different person. The boy has betrayed him and he’s filled with a rage beyond reason. There’s nothing he can say, nothing he can do to get through to him. So he runs away.

“He finds the Druids and hides with them but the Prince sends an army to chase him. They burn any hint of magic they find and the Druids become a target too. So they take up arms to protect themselves. They declare war on Camelot. They start to call it the Second Purge. It’s more than just a war, it’s… it’s a battle for survival. The Druids use magic on men who have no protection against it. Camelot’s soldiers kill women and children, raze whole villages to the ground because they fear what they don’t understand. For every sorcerer there are hundreds more of Camelot’s men. The Druids are more than outnumbered so they hide and strike with magic when they can. The battles go on for months, then years.

“The young man fights for the Druids because it’s the only way he can protect them. It’s his fault that they’re being attacked and he knows he’s responsible. He blames himself for every life that’s taken. But deep down he’s still loyal to the Prince, to the man he used to be. He tries to get close to him, to find a way to speak to him, to apologize for his deception, but… he stops, after…” Merlin swallowed around the tight lump in his throat. Out of everything he’d already confessed, he hated that the memory of this still rendered him numb and speechless. He crossed his arms inside the wide sleeves of his robe to ward off the cold air blowing around them and the chill that had settled in his gut.

“It happens one night, in the fall after the harvests have been brought in. Men disguised to look like bandits sneak across the border into Cendred’s kingdom. They attack Ealdor. He hears their screams through his magic. He comes to save them but it’s too late. His mother’s house is on fire and she’s trapped inside, tied to a post and screaming his name. The whole village is up in flames. He saves her but… the rest… it’s too late. Everyone who tried to flee was killed, the rest burned in their homes. And he feels him… he can feel the Prince, somewhere close. He hears laughter… he doesn’t want to recognize it, but he would know the sound anywhere. He cloaks his mother in enchantments and hide her far, far away. He doesn’t try to get close to the Prince again. The Prince he knew, the noble man he risked his life to protect again and again, he didn’t exist anymore.”

Merlin lifted his right hand and dropped his forehead into it. It astonished him how much telling that had ripped apart his composure and he drew in several ragged breaths, eyes shut to the late morning sunlight that was filtering through around them and the silent Prince who sat at his side. The shadows of the memory of his village burning haunted him still, the heat of the towering flames and the sickly smell of burning flesh and how the sky had burned orange that night, obscuring the stars. His mother had suffered extensive burns and been only minutes away from death when he’d pulled her from the house, and using his magic to heal her and keep her life from slipping away had cost him those last precious moments when he might have been able to search for any other survivors. In the end they’d stood clutching each other in the shelter of the forest, covered in ash and soot from head to toe, watching as the entire village was reduced to cinders. Through it all they heard the screams of fleeing animals, of wood splintering and crashing, and a cold laughter that had sent chills down Merlin’s spine. It was in that moment that he’d realized the Arthur he’d known was truly gone.

Merlin dragged his hand over his face, taking in a deep breath as he attempted to collect himself. It seemed silly to keep up the pretense of telling some kind of story any longer, not when everything he felt was still so real and near to the scars on his heart. It was difficult enough putting the memories to words, and the weight of lingering guilt and shame kept his eyes from looking anywhere except for the upturned palm now resting in his lap. He owed it to Arthur to be as honest as possible, but he still had to clear his throat once before he could speak again.

“I went back to the Druids and tried harder than ever to protect those who couldn’t protect themselves. I used my magic to shield them and heal their wounded; I tried to stop the bloodshed whenever I could. But it was kill or be killed so I did when I had to. I did things I can never be proud of. I tried tactics like scaring the soldiers into retreating but they would still come marching back, again and again. Nothing seemed to make them stop. It was wrong… all wrong. Nothing was happening the way I thought it would. And I blamed myself, for the war and all the deaths, for Arthur losing his mind, for everything. I had to do something, find a way to fix it, to change things and stop the war from ever happening.

“I started searching for answers in other places. I studied every book I could find on old magic. I traveled all over the world, to places where the people speak completely different languages, going on nothing but hints and myths that might show me a way to change the course of history. I kept my research a secret but one of the Druids caught on to my plans and I had to go into hiding. By then I was closer, I had an idea of what I needed to do, but I still needed the time to get it right. It took me half a year, barely sleeping and sometimes forgetting to eat for days, but in the end I finally did it. I packed everything I could, just as the Druids were coming to imprison me for betraying them. I opened a doorway and sent myself to a time before the war, before my magic was revealed, even before I’d come to Camelot. I swore that things would happen differently this time, that I would do everything in my power to keep Camelot and the Druids from going to war.

“It meant I had to lie about who I was, about my age and where I had come from. I knew I would have to hide my face, so no one would recognize me when my younger self came to Camelot a few years later. But the one thing I didn’t plan on was meeting you again so soon, just days after traveling to the past. I didn’t even recognize you at first on the side of the road, you were so young… and I didn’t plan on saving your life, or being appointed your tutor, or being given somewhere to live in the castle again. But I thought maybe it was for the best, and if I could teach you about the history of magic, about its people, maybe it would be enough to-”

“Stop,” Arthur rasped, dropping to the ground so suddenly that he stumbled a few steps away from the stone bench. Merlin jerked at the noise and looked up to see Arthur’s back facing him, shoulders rigid and both hands fisted at his sides in tight, tense balls.

Merlin did not think he could continue speaking even if Arthur had commanded him to. His ramblings had made his throat raw with the memories he had been asked to relive, and there was a tight pain in his chest that only stretched and moved to envelop every inner organ the longer he watched Arthur struggle to collect himself. The wind blew around them steadily, cold and biting on the exposed skin of his face, and more gray clouds had rolled in to obscure the bit of sunlight they’d briefly enjoyed earlier. It wasn’t raining again yet but Merlin could smell the dampness encroaching and hear the whistle of the wind in the trees that dotted the face of the hill below them. It felt like the tension could be snapped with a single word so he said nothing and waited, watching Arthur in silence.

Eventually Arthur moved, a stumbling half step that he seemed to catch himself on before he began to stride across the grass, away from Merlin. Merlin was on his feet before he remembered moving. “Arthur?”

“Don’t speak another word!” Arthur yelled, his voice carrying like a broken thing on the wind and his profile barely visible. Merlin felt the physical weight of it on his heart and he shivered, at a loss, unprepared for how much farther away Arthur seemed even with the short distance between them.

Arthur took off running before Merlin’s feet could bring themselves to move. Merlin called his name again but the wind howled and carried his voice away. Arthur’s fleeing form grew smaller until it disappeared around the curve of the hill and Merlin could only stare on in mute shock. The muscles in his legs turned weak and he stumbled, kneeling on the grass with one hand on the block of stone next to him. The damp earth soaked through the fabric of his breeches but he barely registered the uncomfortable sensation. He could hardly think past the roar of blood in his ears, past the cold in his chest or the grip of ice on his heart that rendered him immobile.

The wind gusted harder and then the rain came anew, falling like a curtain being drawn across the earth, as if the sky had been waiting until the last possible moment to break over Camelot. It fell cold and swiftly, big drops that drenched his head and soaked his robes and left him panting from the sudden shock of it. But his legs refused to move and he could only continue to stare at the place where Arthur had disappeared from sight.

It was in the same spot where Archimedes found him later, curled up against the stone block and with his hood drawn over his head, shivering uncontrollably and his lips a pale shade of blue.


End file.
